The Phoenix and the Serpent
by Sanction
Summary: CHPXXXVI: Journeys end in lovers meeting. - Carpe Diem, W. Shakespeare
1. Choices and Changes

**The Phoenix and the Serpent**

**Note to the Reader:** _(Jan 1, 2008)_

This is an Alternate Universe tale. I began it 6 years ago, post-"Goblet of Fire." After the death of Cedric Diggory, a year follows wherein Voldemort takes no direct action against the wizarding world and Harry's life is at a relative, if uneasy, peace. Things change on his 6th Year, however, and this is where our story begins.

* * *

**Chapter I: Choices and Changes**

_The second war against the Dark Lord Voldemort, commonly known as the Phoenix War, lasted only a year and a month. However, the devastation caused by this conflict was proportionally greater than any war in __wizarding __history__…Economists and historians agree that, had the war lasted one more season, it is likely there would not have been enough left upon which to rebuild._

_-- Excerpts from "The Phoenix War," **Encyclopedia Arcana**_

_*****  
**_

_The year prior to the Phoenix War was a grand exercise in self-delusion. Despite all the signs, despite the Dark Mark appearing during the Quidditch World Cup, we had successfully convinced ourselves that the Dark Lord's return was just a yarn to scare children with; his Death Eaters a mere rabble we occasionally read about in the Daily Prophet. We never imagined **he** would come back, like a recurring nightmare, to darken our peaceful, orderly world. _

_And we never dreamed that our champion, the boy-hero who would rise to challenge the Dark Lord, would not restore that world, but split it asunder. Perhaps forever.  
_

_This is their tale. I tell it now as history, but with another turn of the season, it will be told as legend.  
_

_ --Excerpts from Ciaran McCallow's **Seasons in Shadow: Essays on the War Against The Dark Lord**_

* * *

It was early morning of September 2nd. After finishing a light breakfast, Albus Dumbledore seated himself behind the oak desk in his quarters. There was much work to be done. His guest would be arriving soon, and important decisions had to be made before then.

And of course, there was the matter of Harry Potter. Today he would meet with the boy and tell him the plan he had been working on for more than a year. Today, he would ask Harry to perform a task for him. He did not want to ask him this, because he knew the boy would say yes.

"Which is why I'm here procrastinating," Dumbledore muttered, leaning back and shutting his eyes, "instead of calling him first thing in the morning."

Dumbledore let his gaze wander about the room he had lived in for more than fifty years as Headmaster of Hogwarts. The portraits of former Headmasters of Hogwarts slept placidly in their frames. History books and grimoires from all over sat on his shelves, dog-eared and carelessly cataloged. An ancient globe sat in the corner, marking all the nations existing in the world, as well as some that didn't. A tall, unoccupied perch stood by the window—Fawkes, his pet phoenix, was likely flying about the grounds for some exercise. In a little while, the rest of the studentry would be assembling in their classrooms to begin another year.

It was a wonderful school, and every year of his life here was a year well-spent. He had been happy to be around so many young people. Their very presence lent him youth and energy. He did not wish for things to change now, to have the balance he'd worked so hard for shift once more.

But that is the child in me complaining, he thought with a rueful smile.

He had a duty to perform. He owed it to the children entrusted to his care. He owed it to the people who looked to him for security in these dark times. He owed it to those who had given their lives in the previous war to preserve this way of life. As he had told the Order of the Phoenix, we all have a role to fulfill, and no one suffers alone.

Dumbledore's reverie was interrupted by the glow of a crystal ball on his desk. The light flared brightly for a moment to catch his attention, then faded to reveal the face of Minerva McGonagall. "Professor Dumbledore," she said, "Alastor Moody has arrived and is here to see you."

Dumbledore leaned forward and said, "He's arrived too early, as usual. Please show him in. I will meet with him presently."

"Of course, Professor," responded McGonagall. When Dumbledore did not move away from the crystal, she said, "Is there…something else?"

Dumbledore said, "I would also appreciate it if you ask Mr. Potter to come to my office as soon as possible."

"He is at the Great Hall right now, having breakfast with the rest of Gryffindor."

"Then I'm afraid we must interrupt him. Please apologize for me, as this cannot wait."

With a courteous nod, McGonagall's face vanished from the surface of the crystal.

"So it must be," Dumbledore whispered. He stood up to pour himself some sweet wine, then stopped. _Later, after the meeting_. He sighed again, leaned back on his chair once more.

He let his thoughts dwell for a few moments on the boy who would soon walk into his office. Harry was a brave and strong, but he was still only a boy. It was hardly fair that he suffer any more than he already had. Harry had been forced to carry a heavy burden since he was just a baby, having to live with cruel Muggles for his own protection after Voldemort murdered his parents. In the years that followed he had faced Voldemort three more times, and the last encounter was a very near thing, too near. On top of it all, he had witnessed the death of Cedric Diggory, and doubtless he held himself in some way responsible.

It had been a year since the last time Dumbledore had talked to Harry in this very office. School had just begun, and one of the first things that Harry did was come talk to him. Dumbledore could still remember exactly what was said.

"_I've decided not to play for Gryffindor this year, sir."_

He remembered feeling regret the moment he heard those words, regret that he had not seen to Harry's peace of mind as well as he had to his security.

"…_I see." _

"_They already found a substitute Seeker from the Fourth years. Wallace, I think."_

"_Why, Harry?"_

_Harry did not answer. He seemed to have found something interesting to look at in his hand_s.

"_Does this have something to do with Cedric's death?"_

_After a time, Harry nodded._

"_I understand. I do not think it is a good idea, Harry, and I'm sure your friends have given you all the reasons why it isn't. Still, it is your decision, and I understand. I take it…your captain was less than pleased?"_

_Harry gave a small, bitter smile._

"_Angelina was a good sport about it. I knew she was fuming, though; she must've wanted to make waves this year as captain, and I let her down. Professor McGonagall hasn't said a word to me since—I suppose that would be a good thing. Oliver would've taken it worse. I bet he'd have half of Gryffindor lynching me for abandoning them against the Slytherins. As for Ron…"_

A short knock on his door interrupted his thoughts. "Come in, Harry," said Dumbledore.

The door opened, almost hesitantly, and the boy entered.

"Good morning, Headmaster."

Dumbledore smiled and motioned for him to sit down. "And good morning to you. Please, make yourself comfortable."

Dumbledore studied him as he made his way to the chair and sat down. They'd had little time to talk over the past year—he could count with one hand the number of times they greeted each other in passing. Physically, the boy had changed little. Perhaps just a wee bit taller, but still that messy dark hair and lean frame. Perhaps the girls still sigh and giggle over him whenever he walked past. The difference lay in his eyes. Instead of the spirited, carefree look they had when he first came to Hogwarts, there was now a subtle guardedness. Dumbledore sighed. If there had been a way for him to give Harry a little more guidance, a little more sympathy, he would have done it. But some demons had to be faced alone.

Dumbledore reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a jar. "Would you care for some sweets? Perhaps some butterbeer…?"

"No, thank you, Professor. I'm rather full."

Dumbledore nodded. He opened the jar and retrieved a Chocolate Frog for himself.

"Tell me, Harry," he said. "How do you like your new teachers?"

"They're alright, sir."

"I understand that the Defense Against the Dark Arts class was popular last year. How goes it this year?"

Harry smiled a bit. "Professor Summershield's okay, though the lessons are a bit tame. Nobody else seems to think so, though. They're all rather attentive when she talks. At least the boys are."

"And what about your Potions Professor?"

At this, Harry seemed uncomfortable. "Sir…I don't mean to be rude, but do you think Professor Cowl will ever teach us an actual potion? All he ever talks about is how the potions are used. We never do anything hands-on."

The Headmaster merely smiled. "I'll look into that, Harry, but it seems you'll just have to be patient with Professor Cowl. He studied to be a historian, not a Potions Master. I'm afraid there's been a lack of them nowadays, and not anyone can be like Severus Snape."

"It seems so, sir."

Dumbledore nodded, then changed subjects. "Let me ask you something," he said, unwrapping the Chocolate Frog, "It's not my business, but do you think you'll be playing Quidditch this year?"

Harry was quiet for a minute, then just shrugged. "I'm not sure yet, sir. I still have to think about it."

"I see."

Dumbledore sat silently for another moment. Perhaps asking him was not a good idea, after all. The boy had enough problems. There were other plans, other ways.

But Harry was looking at him curiously now. "Professor Dumbledore, is that what you wanted to talk to me about? If I'm going to play Quidditch?"

Well, thought Dumbledore, should I lie to him, just say that I wanted to find out how he was, and send him back to breakfast? No, that was right out. He had never lied to Harry, and now was not a time to start.

So he said, "I called you here because I wanted to share something with you, something I've been considering all year now."

Harry nodded. "It's about Voldemort, isn't it?"

Dumbledore looked at him somberly. "Yes, I'm afraid it is." He stood up, retrieved his wand from his pocket, muttered a few words. The room crackled with power, as if a current of electricity had passed through the air. All the windows snapped shut. The lights in the room grew dim. Sounds from outside died away. Even the sunlight coming in from the slits of the window became weak and faded.

The headmaster looked right at Harry. His thin frame radiated power, and his kindly gaze turned sharp. "What I will tell you must not leave this room. People's lives are riding on the things we say and the decisions we make. For your sake and safety, you must not tell anyone what I am about to tell you now. Do you understand?"

Harry did not move, transfixed by his gaze. "Yes."

Dumbledore relaxed and the dweomer left him. "First I will tell you my plan," he said, sitting down. "Then I will make a request of you, to which you will be free to say yes or no, given what you have heard. Alright?"

He looked into Harry's eyes and was surprised to see that the guarded look there had disappeared—instead their was only grim determination. As it well should be, thought the headmaster. He is, after all, a Gryffindor.

"Yes, Professor."

"Very well," said Dumbledore. "Let us assess the situation."

"We know, firstly, that Voldemort is alive and hiding with his followers in a place somewhere in the south. Where exactly we are not certain, but we will be. Our concern now is that he is consolidating his power. Some of his old allies have vanished from the public. Muggle news say that people have been disappearing as of late. Also, Hagrid tells me that the giants have been cool to our offers of friendship. I am certain, more than ever, that Voldemort is raising an army. When he is ready, he will invade.

"To counter his plans, I have gathered together some people to help fight him."

"The Order of the Phoe—" Harry stopped, realizing what he had just done.

Dumbledore smiled. "It's alright, Harry. As I have said before, in Hogwarts, secrets are hard to keep. Still, we shall keep this discussion to ourselves, right?"

Harry nodded, and the headmaster continued, "As you know, the Ministry is reluctant to help. We must help ourselves. Thus the Order. Our members are able-bodied and strong. Still, should there be war the damage to both sides would be most grievous, and the conflict would spread beyond the wizarding world. The outcome will be bleak whether we win or lose. So it is with most wars. Do you understand, Harry?"

"Yes, I see your point, sir."

"Would you agree, then, that it is in our best interest to keep the conflict as short as possible?"

"I agree. But how can that be done?"

Dumbledore's eyes turned sad. Now came the hard part. "I hate to bring back bad memories, Harry, but as I said before, all we speak of here is important. Tell me, do you remember what happened at the end of the Tri-Wizard Tournament? Do you remember when you told me that the Dark Lord had risen?"

If Harry felt anything—grief, anger, fear—it did not show on his face. "Yes, Professor."

"Do you remember the spell Pettigrew cast to create Voldemort's body?"

Harry flinched at remembered pain. "Yes."

Dumbledore's brows furrowed. "The Dark Arts give many rewards to its followers, Harry. They can even give life, after a fashion. But the ways of Darkness are steeped in suffering and death. There is always a dreadful price."

Harry looked down at this forearm, as if he could still see the scar through the sleeves of his robes. "He took my blood."

"And in doing so," said Dumbledore as he leaned back on his chair, "he now shares the protection bestowed upon you when you were just a baby. He has made sure that he will not be beaten the same way again."

Harry raised his eyes to meet Dumbledore's. "Is it true then, Professor? Is it true what he said, that he can't die?"

Dumbledore did not answer immediately. "I can't think of a way to kill him, if that's what you're asking," he said.

Harry slumped back on his chair. "Then there is no way to defeat him. Voldemort would just keep coming back, wouldn't he?"

"There is a way, Harry. One way." Dumbledore took his wand once more and traced patterns in the air. The space before Harry shimmered and he found himself staring at the largest, most delicately cut jewel he had ever seen. Even the wan sunlight sparkled on its blood-red surface. Every facet perfectly reflected Harry's awed expression.

Dumbledore leaned with his elbows on the desk. "Let me tell you a story."

Though he did not need to, Harry leaned closer as well. Dumbledore spent a moment gathering his thoughts. When he spoke again, his voice had grown soft and aged, his eyes looking at somewhere far away.

"Many centuries ago," he said, "before the Four had even dreamed of founding Hogwarts and the Celts still roamed this land, there lived a great witch named Dahlia. Her knowledge of magic was both wide and deep, but so was her thirst for power. Thus she was corrupted, and walked the way of Nightgaunt, Halvan and Grindelwald into the Dark Arts. She held council with vampires and other fell beings, and disappeared from the people's sight. When she returned, she had become something else. She became known as the Cimmerian Sorceress. Her power was staggering, incomparable. Many challenged her and died horribly, for like Voldemort, she too had conquered death. Within a year it seemed the land would fall into her grasp.

"But there was one who rose to challenge her and succeeded. This man was her own kin, her cousin Volarius. Volarius was wise and gifted with farsight. Since he could not hope to kill Dahlia, he decided he had to imprison her. After much research, he discovered how to do it.

"From meteorite ore he crafted a gemstone. He charmed it with sap from a Sylvan tree to make it unbreakable. He crafted its facets with fire, and polished its surface with ice. When he had finished, the gem was a pale, clear crystal, the size of a human heart.

"But he needed other things to complete his Crystal Cage. To control it, he had to infuse it with something that belonged to him. And to capture the Cimmerian Sorceress, he also had to infuse it with something that belonged to her. But though he schemed and plotted, he could not near enough to steal something from Dahlia. So he used the next best thing, the one thing that he shared with her—his own blood.

"He cut his wrist and fused his blood with the Crystal, turning it into a crimson gem. Then he confronted Dahlia and the two fought a terrible battle at Stonehenge. When he used the Crystal, it pulsed with power and drew Dahlia into itself. The Cimmerian Sorceress was no more, trapped forever in Volarius's cage."

Dumbledore paused for a moment. Harry, who had been hanging on to his every word, asked, "Then what happened, Professor?"

"Well," the Headmaster went on, "the people then did not know how Volarius defeated Dahlia, only that the Cimmerian Sorceress was gone and that there was peace in the land. Volarius could have been king, but instead he retired to a quiet life. He took his Crystal Cage and kept it in his secret vault. There was no danger of Dahlia escaping from it, but he kept it safe nonetheless till the day he died. Then his family took over its guardianship. From then on, the Crystal was passed on from generation to generation, but its secret was known only to a precious few.

"Volarius was a good man but he was not naïve. He was aware that other wizards, even those of his kin, lusted for power, and evil deeds could be done should the Crystal fall into the wrong hands. So when he created it, he altered the Imprisonment Charm such that the Crystal's magic would work only under two conditions. First, the Crystal could only work in the hands of someone from his bloodline. And the second…" Dumbledore's eyes twinkled at Harry. "The second is that it would only work against someone from his bloodline."

Harry blinked at this, puzzled. Dumbledore went on.

"After many years, the story of Dahlia and the Crystal's secret were lost to memory, existing only in the dustiest of history books. The Crystal was passed on as a family heirloom, considered as nothing more than a pretty trinket. Last we know, it had been turned over to one of the last surviving branches of Volarius's family…the Evans."

Harry's eyes widened in shock. "You mean…_my mother's family!_"

"Precisely, Harry. I am sure neither Lily Evans nor her family knew of the Crystal's properties, being mostly of non-magical stock. However, I am sure that your maternal grandmother kept it as her personal treasure—she refused to sell it off even when the Evans faced hard times. From the research we have done, we believe that she had been buried with it."

Harry sat quietly, thinking things over. He looked up after a time and said, "Professor, you're saying that we can use this crystal as a weapon…"

The Headmaster nodded.

"You're saying…I'm to use it…against Voldemort."

Dumbledore did not respond. He merely looked at Harry.

"But it won't work on him! Volarius's conditions—"

He stopped, eye widening in comprehension.

"The spell! The spell Pettigrew cast to create Voldemort's body! He took bone, flesh...and my blood!"

"Yes," said the Headmaster. "Blood contains life force, the very essence of a person. That is why it carries Protective Charms so well. When Voldemort crafted his body, he infused himself with your own wards. A master stroke, indeed." He smoothed his beard. "But even a master stroke can have a blind-side."

They sat silently for a while. Dumbledore could see that that same guarded look coming over Harry's eyes as the boy gazed into the illusionary Crystal. He had no idea what it could mean, but he should say what he had to say.

"Now I will make my request of you, Harry," he said. "I ask you to go on a journey to obtain the Crystal Cage from your mother's hometown. It will respond only to you, Harry. There is no one else for this task. When you have found a way to master it, I will ask you to face Voldemort once more…"

He stopped and watched Harry's expression. Still nothing. He went on, "You have been through much these past years, too much for anyone of your age to bear…therefore, I do not order you to do this. I can only ask—"

"Yes."

Dumbledore stopped, looked long and hard at Harry. The boy did not seem the least bit afraid. "Harry, this journey is no simple adventure. You will be in danger. The agents of Voldemort are everywhere. And there may be unforeseen circumstances…"

Harry drew in a deep breath. "Professor, you have a plan to keep me safe on this journey, right?"

"Yes, I do."

Harry nodded. "I trust you, sir. I'm going."

Dumbledore heaved a long sigh. _So it must be._

Harry's eyes maintained his resolve, but he also looked a little pale.

"Professor?"

"Yes?"

"I could really use some butterbeer now."

Dumbledore smiled and said, "I have something better, if you don't mind. Do you drink wine?"

Harry fidgeted, "Um, not as a habit, sir. Mr. Weasley once poured me some elderflower wine back at the Burrow. It was okay, I suppose."

The Headmaster waved his wand to dispel the illusion, then Summoned a bottle of wine and two goblets to the table. "Have some with me, then. This one's white plum. I rather like the taste, reminds me of springtime."

They drank a toast. Harry sipped lightly from the wine at first, nodded in approval, and drank more.

"Professor?"

"Yes, my boy?"

"Will the trip be a long one?"

The old man paused. "Traveling there and back is easy. My agent has scouted the area and installed a Portkey beforehand, since you can't Apparate and the Ministry is not going to let us go there by Floo. The search for the Crystal will take a long while. Two weeks will be the limit for you. If you cannot locate the Crystal before then, you must return."

"Oh."

"I'm afraid I can't send any of your friends with you either. And communication with Hogwarts will be put to a minimum, all for security reasons…so if you change your mind…"

Harry looked somewhat miffed. "I won't. I already said I'm going." He looked at Dumbledore and said, "Sir? What did you think I was going to say?"

Dumbledore gave a small shrug. "I was afraid you'd say yes."

"It's a good plan, sir. You were right when you said we had to win this war with as little as conflict as possible. If we can get to Voldemort first, then the fight's over. We must find the Crystal Cage. Or at least try."

"He will be after you too, Harry."

"I know sir, but…" he paused, and Dumbledore saw resolve surface sharply on his face.

"I can't run from this. I don't want to keep my head down here while everyone else faces the danger. Why should I be any different? We all have responsibilities."

Dumbledore's smile was small and sad. "Don't you think you've put yourself under too much of it?"

Harry looked at him evenly, then said, "I've thought of that before. But then I remembered what you said last year to everyone in the Great Hall. Before the summer began."

"Which was…?"

Harry's grip tightened around the goblet in his pale hand. "'Remember Cedric,'" he said, "'if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy, remember Cedric.'" He finished the rest of his wine and said, "How do we begin, sir?"

It took another half-hour of explanations before the final details of the plan were laid out. While Dumbledore paced around his desk, carefully explaining, Harry's eyes continued to widen in amazement. After the old man finished, Harry just sat still.

"Are you alright, lad?"

"…Yes sir. It's just that…I had no idea we'd have to take such measures…"

"I understand your concern. But you must remember that Voldemort's spies are everywhere. Nowhere is completely safe. Not even here."

Harry nodded numbly.

"Very well. Well and good." He gave Harry a small pat on the shoulder. As he gazed at the boy, he felt hope soar in his heart, the same hope he felt when he had founded the Order. Yes, this plan could work. Harry would find the Crystal—wasn't that what he did best, finding things? Yes, he would claim it, master it, and bring down the Dark Lord before he could inflict any horrors upon the world. And he, Dumbledore, would make sure Harry would live to tell about it.

"I will see you tomorrow evening then, Harry," he said, eyes twinkling. "And hopefully, Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger as well."

* * *

Another goblet of wine, another round of well-wishing, and Harry left the Headmaster's office.

He stepped onto the staircase and allowed it to carry him back to the entrance. The gargoyle at the door sniffed the air once as he approached, and made way for him to pass. Out the door he went, into the halls of Hogwarts once more.

Then he sank into the nearest chair and clasped his hands between his legs.

_What did I just say yes to?_

He was not sure, but he knew he had said no to a great many things. No to the first two weeks of his Sixth year. No to wonderful, sumptuous meals in the Great Hall. No to the comforts of a cheery Common Room, playing chess by the fire. No to the luxury of a soft four-poster bed. Perhaps even no to Quidditch, for a second year in a row. If they found out, Fred and George would murder him. Ron would be the accessory.

He would be saying no to Ron and Hermione. He had to tell his two best friends that he was going away. He had to tell them they couldn't go with him, not this time. And he couldn't tell them _why_.

_And what about her, Harry? _a voice asked him._ Are you going to tell her?_

For an awful moment, Harry felt his resolve weaken. Two weeks on a dangerous journey, two weeks away from her. What if he never saw her again? Would she even care? He leaned forward, touching his forehead to his clasped hands, wondering if he should talk to her again after so long, wondering if he even had the courage to try.

Eventually, he calmed himself and stood up. He didn't have to make that decision right now. That, at least, was a consolation. For now there was Ron and Hermione to deal with.

Harry drew in a deep breath to clear his mind, then strode towards Gryffindor Tower.

_To be continued_

_Chapter II: "Mad-Eye Moody Returns" _


	2. MadEye Moody Returns

**The Phoenix and the Serpent**

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter II :** **Mad-Eye Moody Returns**

Alastor Moody waited an hour before deciding that, if he was to going do anymore of it, it might as well be on his feet.

Planting both gnarled hands onto the armrests, he pushed himself out his cushy chair and made for the door. The antechamber McGonagall led showed him into was a comfortable enough place to rest, but to Moody a period of inactivity was more tiring than work. His feet itched to explore. His eyes sought to examine every nook and cranny of the building for any sign of the enemy. In other words, he thought as he flung open the door, I need to do my job.

Students passing by leaped away from him as he entered the hall. He looked about at their shocked faces. "Don't worry," he said, "you haven't met _me_ before." He hobbled away, his peg-leg trailing staccato clicks on the stone floor.

Moody spent the next hour briskly patrolling the halls, his magical eye taking everything in. He treasured this tool, the eye. To his sight, the thickest walls seemed like fine spring mist, and even the invisible merely looked dim. He peered into classrooms and offices, desks and bags. Magical items glowed slightly, and hidden doors stood out from the walls.

When a someone got too close, he even looked through their clothing for hidden weapons. Not that he took pleasure from the practice; one just cannot be too sure. Once, in the spring of '76, he was attacked by a little girl put under the Imperius curse. He sometimes remembered her and her subsequent rescue on cold days, when the scar from her switchblade would pain him. That gave him his most valuable lesson—anyone could be one of _them_.

He paused to examine yet another secret door behind a painting. Noting the cobwebs and dust on the other side, he decided that no one had used it for some time. He stored an image of the door in his eye for future reference, then gazed at the painting itself. It was a landscape of a tranquil forest, complete with moving animals. Moss and fir lay scattered in the duff, and the deep shadows of leaves mottled the clear little brook that flowed down the middle of the painting.

As he watched a doe stop to drink, he reflected that there used to be at time when his life was not so harried. Why, just two years ago he had been living the quiet life of a retiree, off in the countryside. The Ministry had decided that, in peacetime, he deserved something after all his trouble. He had been given a pension and a quiet little shack in an undisclosed place near the woods, where it smelled of summer all year long.

He turned away from the painting and trudged on. He could no longer recall that smell, and he would not be back there to relish it again. Two years ago, he had been kidnapped from his house and put into a dreamless sleep in his own strong box, while a Death Eater impersonated him using Polyjuice Potion. His wooden leg had been taken from him, and so had his eye. Moody gritted his teeth at the memory. It had been a near-disaster for Harry Potter, and would have been an ignoble end for the most capable, most _feared _Auror in all of Britain.

And now? Except for Dumbledore, everyone thought of Moody in the past tense. Even in the Order, he was relegated to mundane tasks. They were not unkind, but they had their kid-gloves snugly on.

All because he got a little careless. All because he enjoyed the peace a little too much.

_Whatever happened your Constant Vigilance, eh, 'Mad-eye'?_ said a mocking voice inside him. _Gotten old, haven't you? Well, now you can practice your Constant Vigilance all you like, playing watchdog at Headquarters._

Now Voldemort had returned. Moody knew he was never going to go back to retirement.

Not that he'd want to, actually.

His face twisted into something halfway between a grin and a grimace. A girl passing by saw him and instantly shrank against the wall, spilling the books in her arms. As he stalked past her, he wondered for the thousandth time if they did that because he looked fearsome, or because they still thought he was a Death Eater in disguise. _What does it matter as long as they're watching out for themselves?_ the voice started up again. _Constant vigilance, eh Moody? Are those the watchwords of the day?_

He was jolted out of his brooding by the patter of running feet behind him. He went for his wand and spun about with a cry, jabbing it at a breathless boy who had just run up to him. The boy stopped in his tracks and threw both hands over his head. "Don't zap me! I'm unarmed!" he cried.

After checking him over, Moody snarled and put away his wand. "Don't go running up behind me like that! I could've turned you into a newt, by Merlin!"

The boy gazed up at him with wide eyes. "Wow, really? McGonnagal never taught us that in Transfigurations. That would be something to see! How's it done?"

Moody stared at him for a minute. "What's your name, boy?"

"Er, Creevy, sir. Dennis Creevy."

"Gryffindor?"

"Yes! How'd you know?"

Moody pocketed his wand. "Lucky guess. In any case, I'd rather not turn you into a newt, Mr. Creevy, seeing you've the brains of one already. Put your hands down and say what you have to say!"

"Oh. Right." He dropped his hands and said, "Um, Professor McGonnagal asked me to find you. She wanted to me tell you the Headmaster will see you now."

Ah, thought Moody, straightening. Dumbledore. Now he would know what all this is about. "Very well," he said, and started to walk away.

The boy scuttled after him. "Er, not that way sir."

Moody whirled about, slapping the boy with his heavy cloak. "What are you talking about? His office is this way, is it not?"

"He's not in his office, sir. He's waiting for you in the garden near the Whomping Willow. This way." He pointed and started walking.

Moody wondered at what Dumbledore might be thinking. The garden? Out in the open?

The boy stopped and turned around. "Coming, sir?"

"Yes, yes," said Moody. As he picked up after Dennis, he muttered, "What in the world is he doing in the garden?"

Overhearing him, Dennis said, "Feeding the fishes, sir."

* * *

The late morning sun flashed on the Headmaster's milky-white hair as he stood quietly by the pond. Moody could easily see him from the glass double doors leading into the garden. Dumbledore casually tossed fishfood from a bowl in his hands. To his left, near the hedges, was a table bearing a tea set and a plate piled up with biscuits. Moody gritted his teeth as he opened the doors and shambled towards Dumbledore. He came all the way out here to discuss tactics, not make social calls! 

Dumbledore turned at Moody's approach. He greeted him with a warm smile and extended his hand. "Alastor, old friend! It's been a while."

Moody shook hands quickly. "Greetings, Professor. I see you are well. I have news."

"So it seems," replied Dumbledore. He gestured to the table. "Please, make yourself comfortable."

Moody reached into the one of the deep pockets of his coat and retrieved a roll of parchment. "Here is the summary report from the Front. Also, my report on the Ministry's activities."

To his chagrin, Dumbledore accepted the parchment and slipped it in his pocket without so much as a glance. "Thank you, Alastor. I will take a look at this. Now, would you care for some refreshments?"

"I'm afraid I can't stay long, Professor. I have a lot of work these days in the Order, what with all that's going on."

"Surely you can spare a moment. You've come a long way, and I have made you wait. Let me make it up to you first. Perhaps, a batch of freshly baked rum biscuits will be an adequate apology."

"There's no need to apologize. I've kept busy, anyhow," growled Moody. Then he paused, his magical eye swiveling to the table. "Rum biscuits, eh?"

Dumbledore smiled encouragingly. "Poppy's best, you know. I asked her to make us a batch early this morning."

"Well," said Moody, "I believe I can spare some time." He allowed Dumbledore to steer him to a chair.

"Now then," said Dumbledore as he put down the bowl and sat across from Moody, "I was just going through my things this morning when . . . what do I find at the bottom of my drawer?" He pulled out a small red box from his pocket. Moody saw it glow blue, and instantly recognized it.

Ah, he thought. So this WAS going to be a secret meeting.

He satisfied himself with a biscuit as Dumbledore tapped the playing cards out of the box. "I thought I had lost my favorite Tokah deck, but there it was! Quite a pleasant surprise. How about a few rounds of Choose-and-Pass, Alastor?"

Moody smiled thinly. "I believe I still remember the rules." He helped himself to another biscuit as Dumbledore shuffled the deck and dealt him a hand.

They said nothing as they raised their cards and examined them thoroughly. A few seconds later, Dumbledore began the game by laying a card face-down onto the table. "A fine morning we're having. Lovely weather this week, isn't it?"

"Quite," Moody grunted. He picked up the card and put it in his hand. There were tiny words inscribed there.

_-I hope you don't mind the arrangements I made for our meeting. I know it is a bit too informal for your taste.-_

After he had read them, the words faded from view. Moody formed a reply in his head and concentrated on one of his own cards. His thoughts were imprinted onto the face.

_-I don't mind, but wouldn't your office be more secure? The garden is far too open.-_

He put the card down onto the table. Dumbledore leisurely picked it up, chose one of his own, and passed it. They kept at this while faking small-talk.

_-I have a number of reasons. I wanted us to look as nonchalant as possible. You finished what you came to do. Now we're just two foolish old men wasting time, playing games. You see, I believe there's a spy in Hogwarts.-_

Moody's thin smile returned, this time with a predatory glint to it_. -Any idea who it is?-_

_-Unfortunately, no.-_

_-Give me a week and it will be taken care of.-_

Dumbledore was quick to reply. -_I thank you, Alastor, but that's not part of my plan. For now, let us leave the spy alone. Perhaps there will be some use for it later. I have a different task in mind for you.-_

Moody scratched his chin as he replied. -_Let's hear it then.-_

_-Remember your tenure as a bodyguard for former Minister Woodworth?-_

_-I do. No less than 23 attempts on his life in the 1960s. Couldn't take a walk down the street without a bloody army guarding his backside. I still have the burn marks when I took a shot for him in the Diagon incident. Those were the days. Well, you have someone in mind now?-_

_-First, please tell me if someone's watching us.-_

Moody reached into another coat pocket and fished out what looked like a pocket watch. He laid on the table and opened it. Instead of a clock's face, inside was round mirror. It was a piece of his Foe-Glass, a device he used to spot nearby enemies. Right now, there was nothing on the glass but a grey haze. Satisfied, Moody put down another card.

_-Go ahead.-_

Dumbledore nodded and passed his own card.

_-Harry Potter.-_

Moody raised one scraggy eyebrow. -_Interesting.-_

_-He's going on a journey, Alastor. He's going to look for something vital to us. I cannot tell you the specifics yet, only that he needs to be protected. So, I was hoping you're not as busy with the Order as you say…-_

Moody snorted. He slapped his next card onto the table.

_-Those snot-nosed brats might as well keep me tethered at the door! Wet behind the bloody ears, the whole lot of them! But what do they make me do all day? Stand guard like a common watch dog! I should be out there in the Front, hunting down Death Eaters like the bloodhound I was made to be.-_

I spent all the good years of my life that way, he added in his thoughts. Why not the last ones?

Dumbledore stroked his beard, then gently lay a card down. -_I understand how you feel, my friend. Perhaps you will be feel more in your element with this task. If you accept it, of course.-_

_-I'll do it if it gets me out of Headquarters. How long a journey are we looking at?-_

_-A maximum of two weeks. You are scheduled to leave six days from now, next Wednesday. Also, to prevent any run-ins with the Ministry, you'll have to travel by Port-Key.-_

_-Dangerous?-_

_-I have other security measures for Harry that will ensure utmost secrecy. I will show these to you later, but this mission may still to be considerably life-threatening.-_

_-Excellent. I'll need a team of four, preferrably from the Aurors on our side.-_

Moody could tell by the way Dumbledore set his mouth that not only was he going to be turned down, what he was going to be told may well be unpleasant.

_-I'm afraid five bodyguards will catch too much attention. I don't want the Death Eaters getting the slightest idea on what we're up to. As such, two bodyguards would be ideal.-_

_-So, you already have someone in mind?-_

_-I do. I was hoping you could work with young Daniel once more.-_

_Moody coughed and spat into the cup he had been sipping from. He fixed both eyes upon the Headmaster. _

_-You absolutely cannot mean what you just said!-_

There was a hint of humor on the Headmaster's face as he replied, -_I always mean what I say, Alastor.-_

Moody fought to keep his face straight. -_But . . . Daniel? Why him?-_

_-I have my reasons. Chief of these is that he is unobtrusive.-_

Moody snorted. _-'The Caracal'? Unobtrusive?-_

_-I mean he won't catch Voldemort's attention,-_ Dumbledore clarified._ -You must agree that everyone in both the Ministry and the Order is a marked man. If a number of us go missing for some time, people will start asking questions. And what if the wrong people start asking the right questions? We both know that Voldemort keeps his ear to the ground. This makes someone like Daniel ideal. Voldemort won't anticipate him.-_

_-That sounds well and good, but let's not forget that boy's temperament! He's a cudgel, not a blade! You might as well have asked your Whomping Willow to knit you a sweater!-_

Dumbledore took a sip from his cup before forming a reply. -_From what I have seen of his performance last time, Daniel has handled himself quite capably. I see no danger in putting my trust in him. Besides which, you will be there to guide him, just as you were there last time.-_

_-Of course I was there last time! Why do you think I retired afterwards?-_

_-Come, come, Alastor. I assure you that you both worked very well together. Didn't you once say that a team draws strength from variety? And you must admit, Daniel's skills are quite useful. He could have worked for the Order, even the Ministry somehow, if he so wanted.-_

Moody's face turned blank. He lowered his hand after he passed another card.

_-The boy distrusts Aurors. He hates anything connected to the Ministry. He won't have anything to do with Hogwarts. You were lucky to get him the first time. What makes you think you can do it again?-_

Dumbledore traced the outline of his chin with a finger. _-I'll have to talk to him later. I am confident he will agree. If he balks, I can think of a few things I can offer him.-_

_-You're really going through with this, aren't you.-_

Dumbledore looked at him soberly. _-Only if you are.-_

Neither of them moved for a few moments. Then Moody swiftly put a card down.

_-Wait.-_

Dumbledore wrote back, _-How long before you can come to a decision?-_

_-I don't mean it like that. I see something on my Foe-Glass.-_

Moody relaxed his shoulders and lifted the cards to his face, but kept his magical eye trained at the hazy figure that had surfaced on his device. Across from him, Dumbledore scratched his head and pretended to be stumped for his next move.

The figure in the Foe-glass seemed like part of the grey mist, only darker and vaguely man-shaped. Moody pretended to yawn but kept staring at it, daring it to approach. It came to the brink of being discernable, but faded away as suddenly as it had come.

A card slid towards Moody.

_-Well?-_

Moody's eye swiveled towards Dumbledore. _-Your pests here are slippery. Took off before I could get a good look. Good intuition on that one.-_

_-I suppose we'll just have to be on our guard. In any case, the spy won't learn anything I won't want Voldemort to learn.-_

_-Playing it close, I see. Just like in the old days.-_

_-Yes, those were the days.-_

They both sipped their tea in silence. It was several long minutes before Moody passed another card. _-You really believe we can pull this whole thing off?-_

Dumbledore merely smiled. _-You two have my utmost faith.-_

_-…I'm undecided.-_

_-I wonder about that. I thought you wanted to be a bloodhound.-_

_-You're a sneaky git. I swear I'll never play cards with you again!-_

Dumbledore chuckled. _-We have a deal then. You will be well rewarded, Alastor. And Daniel too.-_

Moody returned a weary sigh. _-I don't believe I'm actually going through with this.-_

* * *

"I just don't believe it!" cried Ron. Harry heaved a weary sigh. As he had thought, this was going to be nowhere near easy. 

As per Dumbledore's intructions, he had brought both Ron and Hermione to the Headmaster's office to explain to them what he had to do. Both his best friends were more than surprised when they saw Harry had been given access to Dumbledore's quarters, or that he knew how to operate its Security charms. They were apprehensive as well. It could only mean something big was going on.

At the moment, the Headmaster was not around, having opted to give Harry some privacy for this task. He had his friends sit on the comfortable chairs in front of the oak desk, sat down on another chair—and proceeded to tell them he was going away.

Neither one had taken the news well.

"I can't believe you've just agreed to leave for two weeks!" Ron said. "Two weeks away from Hogwarts! Two weeks away from…from everything! And you're not even going to tell us why?"

Across him, Hermione sat staring at Harry, a frown tugging at her brows. No, she didn't like any more than Ron did, but Harry had to explain to them that this had to be done. Hopefully without a prolonged argument.

"Ron," said Harry, "Dumbledore has some very good reasons why he wants it this way. This entire mission must be kept secret. I'd like to tell you where I'm going and why, but I can't."

"And why not? It's not like I can't keep secrets!"

"I already told you. There are security reasons…"

"Security never stopped you before, Harry. Or don't you remember the Philosopher's Stone? How about flying a Ford Anglia? And taking stuff from Snape's quarters? For God's sakes Harry, we all know who your godfather is! How can you say we can't keep secrets?"

"I'm not saying that! Things are different this time, Ron!"

"In what way? I don't see how you can leave us out of this. I don't even understand why you agreed to do something like this without talking to us about it first!"

Harry felt a irrational stab of guilt even as he retorted, "Because it's supposed to be a secret! Of course I can't talk to you about it first!"

"I already know that! I'm saying that it never stopped you before!"

"It would be too dangerous for either of you to know!"

Ron threw up his hands. "What, you don't trust us? Is that it?"

Harry felt all too grateful when Hermione reached out for Ron's arm. "Calm down, will you? Just calm down. We're going around in circles. And you know that's not what Harry meant." Ron looked at her, and fell quiet for the moment.

"Harry," Hermione said, "does it have really have to be you? Surely Dumbledore can send someone else to do whatever is necessary…?"

Harry shook his head. "No, not this time. Sorry, Hermione."

"But what could be so important that …" She stopped when Harry shook his head. He would tell her nothing further.

Ron spoke up. "Fine. Don't tell us why you have to go. Don't even say where. I won't ask any questions. But we're coming with you."

Harry's mouth fell open. "Ron—No!"

"What do you mean, no? Why not? Too dangerous, is it?"

"Of course it's dangerous, but that's not—"

"You're expecting us to sit on our bums here and do nothing while You-Know-Who hunts you down out there? Forget it! We're going!"

"Will you stop and listen for a minute! In the first place, it isn't safe for us to go together! Everyone knows who we are and they're bound to notice if we've left Hogwarts. When Voldemort finds out about it we're finished, and so is the mission."

Ron seemed so worked up he didn't even flinch at the Dark Lord's name. He put his fists on top of his knees and tried to control himself. "So you're going out there by yourself?"

"I'm not going alone," replied Harry. "Dumbledore said I'll have two bodyguards."

Hermione spoke up. "Who? Sirius? Remus?"

"Maybe. He hasn't told me yet," Harry said. He hoped it would be them.

"It's gotta be Sirius and Remus. I'm sure then they'll let us come," said Ron hastily. "Besides, it'll be safer if you have more people around you."

Harry clenched his teeth. Now was not the time for Ron to actually be logical. "It won't work that way. I already told you—!"

"You've told me nothing since the minute you dragged us up here! You won't say where you're going and why! I don't know why you feel you can't tell us why you're risking your life again—"

"I can't tell you because I can't."

"You mean you won't."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Ron stared stonily at him. "It means exactly what it means."

The two said nothing. Harry grappled for a retort, but Hermione cut in before he could do any damage. "Harry, maybe it'll be easier if you tell us what Dumbledore had in mind when he said we could help."

Harry turned away from Ron. "Yeah, fine," he muttered. He ran his hand through his hair, as if to clear his thoughts.

"Dumbledore has all sorts of precautions to make sure the whole thing's a secret. In fact, he wants to make sure no one knows I've left."

Ron snorted. "Just how're the two of you going to manage that?"

Harry drew in a breath before answering. "He's going to build a homunculus."

Hermione gasped, eyes widening. "Harry! Is he really…?"

Ron turned to her, "What's he talking about?"

"I read about those things in Amulets, Artifacts and other Arcana," Hermione said. "A homunculus is an artificial human brought to life by magic! It's a lot like a golem, only it looks exactly like a human being. It will be able to talk, think and act independantly from its creators just like any ordinary person."

Ron frowned and scratched an eyebrow. "You mean, it's alive?"

"It isn't really alive. It's just pretending to be." She turned to Harry. "You're saying that Dumbledore's going to make a homunculus that looks just like you?"

"Yes. Dumbledore says there's a way to make it behave like me. It will be my decoy. If everything works out, no one will ever suspect that I've ever left." He paused, relishing the brilliance of Dumbledore's plan. "Not even Voldemort."

Hermione's brows furrowed once more. "But won't Dumbledore get into trouble if the Ministry finds out? The homunculus will be an unlicensed magical construct…"

"That's why we're going to keep the whole thing to ourselves. Aside from Dumbledore, only me, you and my bodyguards will know."

Ron gazed at him suspiciously. It seemed he had an idea of what was up ahead. "And what are we supposed to do with this look-alike of yours, Harry?"

Harry returned his gaze stoically. "I don't know yet. Dumbledore will explain later on. I just need your pledge that you'll help later."

"Not again!" Ron bolted out of his seat. "I can see where this is going! You're asking me to live with this...thing that looks likes you and talks like you, but isn't even alive? You're asking me to pretend he's you? Are you out of your mind?"

"No, I'll be out of my mind if I don't go through with this!" Harry shouted, rising out of his seat. "I have one chance, one chance to bring Voldemort down! You think I'd waste it? You think I'd jeopardize it? I don't care if it means leaving Hogwarts for two weeks or two years. I don't care if it's dangerous. I don't care even if I have to do it alone. I'm taking this chance. And you can either help me or get out of my way!"

Silence fell in the darkened room, but Harry could hear only his own heavy breathing. He turned away from Ron's hardened expression and walked to the side of Dumbledore's desk.

"I've tried to explain it to you," he said. "This is how it's going to be: tomorrow evening, Professor Dumbledore is going to have another meeting here. I'm going, and I'm asking you both to come too. You have to decide if you're going to help out or not. The new password will be 'Fiddlesticks.' If you're here by seven o'clock, then you're helping us. If you're not, then you're not."

Ron had not taken his eyes away from him for one moment.

"You think I'm just going to go along with whatever you say, don't you."

Before Harry could reply, Ron turned and stalked towards the door. He slammed it shut behind him as he left.

With a sigh, Harry turned off the Security charms and leaned against the desk. He looked at Hermione, who had been watching him intently.

"So, Prefect Granger, are you going to start taking points off because I've been keeping secrets from you?"

She shook her head. "I understand where you're coming from, Harry."

He watched her for a moment, then remarked, "It's kind of funny."

"What is?"

"You hardly tried to stop us from arguing. That isn't like you. You always used to get between us one way or another. Like stamp your feet, or shout, or smack Ron on the head."

She just shrugged and smiled a little. "Sometimes you have to just let people get things off their chest. I think Ron wanted to let you know some things for a while now. He just didn't know how to say it."

Harry wondered what she meant. He tried to review some of Ron's words, but was too angry to think straight at the moment. There would be time to sift through them later.

He said, "Hey, don't you think he over-reacted over my leaving for just a couple of weeks?"

"Don't trivialize it, Harry," she said. "In case you've forgotten, we've known each other for six years. That's six years worth of studying together, having meals together, going on trips, getting in trouble. We've shared life and sometimes we've very nearly shared death. And now you're going off alone."

"I won't be alone, Hermione. Dumbledore said…"

"I know what Dumbledore said. What I meant was, whenever something difficult came along, it's always been the three of us. Since first year, it was always us together. "

She watched her hands for a minute, trying to find the words. "I was thinking, since the day Ron and I…got together, you've been mostly by yourself. I don't think that was fair to you. We sort of left you alone …"

"Hermione, don't. We all waited ages for you guys to come clean, and—"

She waved him off. "I know…but it didn't help the fact that you were becoming more distant, Harry. I saw it happening. You'd sometimes get quiet and brooding, and then you'd go off alone. I guess you thought you could hide it, but we knew you too well. We worried about you, but it was difficult to reach you. It only got worse when you had nightmares. But you wouldn't talk. Well, it was partly our fault. We should've kept trying.

"Harry, I know you're doing this because Dumbledore asked you to and it has to be just you. But you know what? Before today, I've never seen you keep something so secret from either Ron or me. I've never seen you fight so hard to keep the both of us out. I think Ron sees this too, that's why he got so mad. That's why he said those things. It's like you WANT to do this alone, Harry. You want to do this alone and that scares me, it really does. So I want to know why." She gazed at him beseechingly.

Harry dropped his eyes to the floor. The guilt came again, stronger this time. He fought it down and said, "…I just don't want either of you to get hurt. That's all." But the words felt too heavy, the way they felt whenever he lied.

Herminone stared at him for a while, then said, "What about Ginny?"

Harry stiffened slightly. When he looked up, his face was blank. "What about Ginny?"

"Won't you tell her what you've told us? And that you're going away?"

The question hung in the air. Part of Harry resented her for reminding him—he had already succeeded in pushing the question away into some dark corner of his mind, as if it would somehow answer itself. It hadn't. Now he was the one cornered. And he had no words.

Finally, he replied, "I don't think I should. It's not part of the plan."

She returned his even gaze, disappointment in her eyes. "No, of course it's not. It's not in YOUR plan." She sighed in a way that said, 'at least consider it.' "I'll see if I can turn Ron around. I can't promise you anything about him, but I'll be here tomorrow night." She turned and left the room.

Harry stayed there at the table for a long minute, not thinking, not seeing. Then he slowly made his way to the chair beside him. He pulled of his glasses and sank into the seat, head lolling back, arms on the rests, eyes falling shut.

He waited for an answer.

_To be continued_


	3. The Leavetaking

** The Phoenix and the Serpent**

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter III : The Leave-Taking**

_Thursday evening._

Harry didn't feel like having dinner. Nor did he feel like doing anything else at all. All day he felt strangely weary, as if he'd long been waiting for a train that would never arrive. All that seemed real to him as the hours trickled by was the meeting at Dumbledore's office, later that night.

That, and one other thing.

He stood alone in the dwindling light, waiting in a corner of the antechamber of the Great Hall. It was close to dinnertime, and Hogwarts students were already swarming towards the large double doors. He didn't have long to wait before he saw her.

She walked amidst a cluster of other girls, but he easily found her by the sound of her voice and that telltale bright red hair. Harry watched as Ginny Weasley made her way to the Great Hall, talking and laughing with her friends. She had her hair pulled back in its usual ponytail, but a few red wisps had escaped the clasp and clung close to her soft brown eyes. He used to remind her to fix it, but she'd always say it was too much of a bother untying her ponytail just to tuck away a few unruly strands. She didn't know he just wanted an excuse to see her hair undone, even for a few moments.

As always there was an ache inside that wanted him to go to her right now and tell her something, anything. Maybe tell her that he was sorry.

He couldn't, of course. Seven months before, he had decided not to tell her that or anything else.

But should I tell her I'm going away? 

What a reckless, silly, selfish thing to do! he thought. Didn't he promise Dumbledore he would keep it secret? Didn't he decide himself that his two best friends could only know so much of the plan? And why should he disturb her by telling her any of this? What in the world for? So that she would be concerned over him? She had no reason to be. They haven't had a conversation in those seven months. Ginny now lived a life far removed from his. Even when during his stay at the Burrow last summer, she maintained a polite distance from him, greeting him in the morning, nonchalantly passing him the plate during dinner, letting use the stairs first...

What did they have together? Some good times, nothing more. They didn't owe each other anything!

But that old ache didn't leave him. It only became sharper as she walked through the large double doors, out of sight.

Harry trudged on, wandering the halls of Hogwarts alone.

It was quarter to seven when his feet led him to the entrance to Dumbledore's quarters. He was half-afraid no one would be there, but then he saw Hermione standing conspicuously by herself in front of the stone gargoyle. He tried to ignore his disappointment at Ron's absence, and smiled at her in greeting.

She smiled back, though her eyes were sad and muted. He stood beside her without saying anything. Prior to coming here, he decided not to ask about Ron if he hadn't already shown up. Ron hadn't spoken to him at all after that fight in Dumbledore's office; he buried himself in the covers of his bed that night and the next day left the dormitory before Harry even woke. They met each other in the Great Hall for breakfast, but neither one spoke to the other—Ron idly stirred the remaining cereal in his bowl and scowled down at the soggy mess.

But Hermione didn't wait for Harry to ask. "I talked to him about tonight, but like the prat he is he didn't give me a straight answer. Kind of like you, don't you think?"

Harry shrugged with forced nonchalance. "Well, we still have a few minutes."

She crossed her arms. "It's your fault too, you know. You just had to pick a fight with him. Knowing Ron...oh, what's the use? I'll never understand you two."

Harry simply smiled. "Guess I haven't been having much luck with Weasleys recently."

He immediately regretted saying that, because she turned to him and asked, "What about Ginny? Did you—"

"I haven't decided yet," he said.

She looked at him as if she knew he was lying, but said, "You don't have much time left to do it. You don't have to tell her anything else, but at least let her know you're going away. At least tell her goodbye!"

"I know."

She just watched him, and said nothing further.

They waited together in the hallway, but seven came around and there was still no sign of their friend. Harry knew it was time; they had to go on.

"Let's go up." He couldn't believe how quiet his voice had become.

She turned to look at him, biting her lip. "Would Dumbledore mind terribly if we were a few minutes late?"

"I rather think he would," replied Harry, "given how important this is."

She nodded her head, eyes downcast.

"It's not your fault," he said. He turned to the gargoyle and said, "Fiddlesticks!" It jumped aside, and let them through to the moving stairs.

"I'm sorry, Harry," said Hermione, as they stepped together onto the moving stairs. He simply replied, "It's not your fault."

They arrived at the door and Harry knocked. "Come in," Dumbledore called from the other side.

He hesitated a moment, then turned the knob and walked in. "Good evening, Headm—"

His tongue froze against his teeth as the man standing beside Dumbledore's desk turned to face him. There, dressed in a brown, shaggy cloak and gazing at him with his fearsome, magical eye, was Alastor Moody.

Dumbledore smiled and stood up, motioning with his hands. "It's alright, Harry. Do come in. You too, Ms. Granger."

Noting Harry's hesitation, Moody nodded in greeting and said, "S'alright, lad, miss. Nothing to worry about here."

Harry nodded, though he was only slightly reassured. The image of Barty Crouch Jr. behind that gnarled face remained fresh in his mind. Still, he stepped into the room. Hermione followed him, her wide-eyed gaze caught not by the sight of Moody, but by the objects lying on Dumbledore's table.

Harry looked at them as well—and was amazed. On the left side was a large sealed jar with a small glass spigot on its side. It was filled to the brim with clear liquid, and floating in there was something that resembled a curled-up human fetus. It only resembled it, though, for on closer inspection he realized that it didn't have eyes, or a nose, or a mouth.

On the right side of the desk was something familiar—the Pensieve. The bowl that reflected Dumbledore's thoughts remained much the same, except that its contents didn't look at all like liquid silver. Instead, they were as clear as spring water.

Dumbledore activated the Security charms and walked towards them, still smiling. "Good evening to you both. Now that you are here we may begin immediately. We have important things to do before the hour ends, so I take it…" his eyes flickered from one to the other, "…all are here that would be here?"

Harry and Hermione exchanged glances, and Harry nodded. "Sorry, sir."

"We shall make do, Harry, never fear." He took him by the shoulder and motioned to Moody. "I will now introduce to you the first of your bodyguards…"

"Alastor Moody," the other man said, hobbling forward. He extended his hand to Harry. "We've never been properly introduced."

Harry shook hands and said, "How do you do?" Moody's face split into a grin that to Harry didn't look entirely pleasant.

Dumbledore said, "Your other bodyguard, Daniel Oaks, cannot be with us at the moment as his presence here will not go unnoticed by spies. You will meet him later on." He motioned with his hand, and three chairs scurried over from the sides of the room and stopped behind his guests. "Now, if you will make yourselves comfortable, we can begin."

"Um, Professor," Hermione timidly said as they sat down, "that thing in the jar…"

Dumbledore nodded. "I trust you know what a homunculus is? Ah, but I should know better than to ask, Ms. Granger."

He caught all of them in his gaze and went on, "The first of our tasks is to ensure that Harry will be completely safe on this journey he is undertaking. Bodyguards, of course, will be necessary, but as an added precaution we will be using this," he gestured at the jar on the desk. "This is the main reason we are here tonight—the creation of the homunculus.

"Now Harry, if you don't mind—"

His speech was interrupted by a knock on the door. Immediately, Moody's hand slipped into his pocket and his eye swung to the entrance. All gazed tensely at the door.

Finally, Moody said, "Potter, Ms. Granger, I don't suppose either of you have any red-headed friends?"

Hermione practically leaped out of her chair. "Ron!" she cried and ran for the door. Against his will, Harry felt a smile growing on his face.

"Well, well," said Dumbledore, beaming at Harry. "I thought it would be out of character for him not to be here."

From behind him, Harry heard snatches of rapid conversation:

"You made it! You prat, I'm going to kill you—"

"Hermione! Not here, okay? Why's it so dark—

"Get to your seat already! You really had us going there, you dope—"

"Well, I had to take dinner first, you know—"

"For heaven's sakes, you'd be late for your own funeral—"

"Say, isn't that—"

"Yes, he's Harry's bodyguard—"

"What!?! You've got be kidding—"

"Shhhh!"

Hermione dragged Ron to where Harry was, another chair scampering up behind them.

"Good evening, Ron Weasley," said the Headmaster. "I'm glad you could join us tonight."

Ron flushed slightly and said, "Good evening Professor Dumbledore, Mr. Moody. Sorry about being late."

"No harm done. Please, take a seat while I make my preparations."

The chair positioned itself between Harry and Hermione, and Ron sat down. Hermione pursed her lips as neither boy acknowledged the other's presence, but stared straight ahead. Ron's composure, however, collapsed quickly when he spied the jar in Dumbledore's hands. "What the bloody hell is that thing?!" he cried.

Hermione slapped at his shoulder. "Mind your manners, Ron! That's the homunculus. That's what Harry's here for."

Ron eyed it, looking rather queasy. "Um, it's really not alive, right?"

"No it's not, Ronald," replied Dumbledore, "but the success of our plans rests on its _pretending_ to be alive."

He turned to Harry. "Please sit next to the Pensieve."

Harry stood up and walked over to the bowl. The chair skittered forward to stand behind him. "Now, Harry," said Dumbledore, "we shall give the homunculus your thoughts. To accomplish this, I have modified the Pensieve: it will copy your thoughts and memories, and transfer them to the mind of the homunculus. Its behavior will then be attuned to yours. You need not worry about anything—this process will not harm your memories in any way.

"To begin the thought transfer process, I must cast a spell on you to put you to sleep. The transfer will take one hour. We can start anytime you are ready."

Harry turned his gaze to where Ron and Hermione still sat. Ron's mouth was a tense, narrow line. There was apprehension in Hermione's eyes, but she smiled encouragingly and reached for Ron's hand.

Without taking his eyes off them, Harry said, "I'm ready."

Dumbledore approached him, his sky blue robes blocking Harry's friends from sight. Harry looked up at the old man's kindly face, and at the wand slowly descending upon him.

_"Hypnos."_

_And Harry slipped down a dark tunnel, ending in a place that glowed blue as a perfect sky. He lay there suspended for what seemed ages, feeling weightless as air. Then the wind came. Its cold touch cut through mind and memory, emptying him of joy, sorrow, fear. Visions flashed like lightning—he could see the faces of people he knew, he could see—_

_The Snitch clasped in both his hands, the crowd cheering wildly in the stands—_

_His Patronus, a brilliant silver stag, gracefully leaping past him—_

_Cedric Diggory, lifeless on the ground, fear and confusion the last thing in his eyes—_

_A jewel, red as blood—_

_A horrible face with green, glowing eyes—_

_A standing stone, ancient and gray—_

_A black feather carried by the wind—_

_A pillar of white flame—_

_a great fortress, lashed by wind and wave—_

_And Ginny, replacing the glasses on his face and smiling, gazing at him with an emotion he could not (would not) name—_

He woke with a start as a hand roughly grabbed his shoulder. "Harry," someone cried, shaking him, "Harry, wake up!"

Harry blinked rapidly and adjusted the glasses on his face. His body felt stiff and his mind cobwebby, like he'd been asleep for days. He peered up and saw Ron's worried face.

"What happened?" asked Harry. He gazed bemusedly at his right hand, dipped into the waters of the Pensieve. The liquid was no longer clear, but a strange azure.

Dumbledore spoke from behind Ron. "Please help him stand, Mr. Weasley. We need to discuss something." Ron quickly obeyed, gripping Harry by the arm and pulling him to his feet. Harry withdrew his hand from the Pensieve, unsurprised that it was not the least bit wet.

Dumbledore was sitting between Moody and Hermione in a circle of chairs. The Headmaster's expression looked grave. Hermione's face was pale, and Moody's jagged brows were knit into a scowl.

"Are you alright, Harry?" asked Dumbledore. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay," said Harry. "I feel like I'm made of jelly, but I'm okay."

"That sensation will go away in a few moments. Miss Granger, please get him some water from the pitcher by the cabinet over there. Thank you." He motioned for Harry to sit beside him. Ron helped him there and sat down himself.

"I'm afraid I have bad news," said Dumbledore, and nodded to Moody. The other man said, "Just after you went to sleep an owl arrived from Headquarters. They received a message from one our informants in the south." He raised a piece of parchment clutched in his bony hand. The muscles on his jaws tightened; he looked almost feral. "Two hours ago, Death Eaters attacked the wizarding village of Thistleberry in Wales. Five civilians dead, six are missing."

Harry felt the bottom drop out from under his guts. "Voldemort's already made his move," he said. Ron shot him a nervous look, but he didn't notice.

Hermione came to his side and handed him a glass of cold water, which he downed quickly. "What do we do now?" she asked quietly.

"Now," said Dumbledore, "I'm afraid we've precious little time. This attack is just a prelude. Within the next few days, more vicious ones will occur. We must act _now_." He looked each of them in the eye. "I propose that the journey begin the day after tomorrow, on Saturday. Hogsmeade will have a festival then, commemorating 500 years since its founding. Perhaps we can make an exception this year and have our Hogsmeade weekend a little early. With this as cover, we can attempt the switch. Are we agreed?"

Harry's felt his spirits plummet. Did he have to leave so soon? He looked about and saw his feelings mirrored on his the faces of his friends.

But no one objected.

Dumbledore nodded sagely. "Very well. The homunculus will be ready by tomorrow. I will send your final instructions by then."

Moody stood up. "Can't waste any time then," he said. "We have to get the little bugger on its feet before tomorrow night." He lurched over to the jar and conjured a bucket beside the table. Turning the spigot, he began draining the clear oily substance into the bucket.

Dumbledore said to Harry, "There is one last thing that brooks attention. Have you chosen an alias?"

Harry nodded. He'd picked the most forgettable name he could think of. "Robert Jerome Smith."

The Headmaster nodded in approval. "Hold out your hand."

Harry did so. Dumbledore placed a yellow pill on his outstretched palm, pointed his wand at it, and muttered the name.

"Er, what's that, Professor?" Ron asked, eyeing the tiny object.

"This is the last of Harry's safeguard," Dumbledore replied, "a Polymien Pill, a more stable version of the Polyjuice. As he is, Harry will have a difficult time traveling without detection. In order to preserve his safety we must keep his identity locked away. From the moment the switch has taken place, his double will be Harry Potter and he will be Robert Jerome Smith."

He turned to Harry and said, "The command word will be your full alias. Say it completely and your disguise will activate. Remember to keep it on over the course of your journey. If for any reason you must reveal who you are, the command word to revoke the disguise is your real name—middle name included. Take the pill now Harry, but do not activate the disguise until after the switch. Do you understand?"

"Yes Professor," said Harry. Gathering his courage, he downed the pill and reached for the glass beside him.

"Good," said Dumbledore, then turned to the Ron and Hermione. "Do you have any questions about the instructions I gave you?"

Both replied no. Curious, Harry asked, "What instructions?"

"Our job is to watch over your double," replied Hermione. "We're to make sure it will behave exactly like you. It may have a hard time adjusting to its environment at first, even though it has your memories and basic personality. We have to make sure it behaves right. Clandestinely, of course." Her eyes suddenly sparkled with excitement. "This is going to be so interesting! I get see first-hand how a magical humanoid construct operates!"

Ron looked on distaste. "Hate to break it to you, Hermione, but I don't think you'll be writing a research paper on this one."

"Alright, my friends," said Dumbledore, "Alastor and I shall take it from here. You all need to rest, so off to bed with you. Leave the work to us old men." He smiled at them once more, despite the worry in his eyes. "Please remember not to discuss the matter beyond this room."

They filed out, and the last thing Harry saw before he walked out the door was the Headmaster holding the Pensieve in both aged hands, slowly tipping it into the open mouth of the jar. The azure liquid washed over the head of the inhuman fetus, like a strange form of baptism.

Moments later they were in the hall again, and Harry found himself face to face with Ron. It struck him then that they had spent a whole day without a proper conversation.

Ron stared at him quietly. Finally, he said, "Hey."

"Hey," returned Harry. He fiddled with the sleeves of his robes, wordless, then said off-handedly, "Didn't think you'd be coming."

Ron was just as nonchalant. "Didn't you now?"

"Well, you seemed pretty worked up back then."

Ron shrugged and scratched an ear that had gone slightly red.

"Yeah…well…I couldn't let you face this alone, right? Even if it's going to be just sitting on the bleachers again for me. Not that I enjoy rooting for a bum like you."

"It would help if you weren't such a pig-headed prat."

"Pot."

"Kettle."

"Oh," Hermione cut in, exasperated, "When are you two going to knock it off?"

Harry stopped fighting it—he smiled, and so did Ron. Watching them, Hermione heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Boys," she muttered, as she started for Gryffindor. "I'll never understand them. Don't imagine I ever will either."

Harry and Ron caught up with her. "You can't understand us, you know," Ron said to her, grinning. "Stop trying and just live with it."

"Idiot," Hermione retorted. She linked one arm with Ron's and the other with Harry's, pulling them closer to her. They were quiet for a time, as if this simple act said everything that needed saying and mended everything that had been damaged.

* * *

_Friday morning. _

Alastor Moody stood on the platform of the Hogwarts Express, suitcase in hand, patiently waiting. The smoke from the locomotive mingled with the early morning mist, scattering sunshine around him. There was a chilly nip in the air, a sure signal that autumn was near. Soon he would feel his scars aching more often, like a hundred little stitches on his flesh.

Moody pulled his ancient, mouse-colored hat lower over his eyes and meticulously searched the faces of the people nearby. That spy business itched in his brain. He wished there was some way to get a crack at that intruder, despite Dumbledore's orders. At least find out who it was.

No one from the handful of people around him seemed out of the ordinary, just a bunch of Hogsmeade residents on their way to London, perhaps for some frantic last-minute grocery shopping before tomorrow's festival. It looked like a peaceful, uneventful, thoroughly boring journey back. It was just as well: he and Dumbledore had been working on the decoy all night.

Presently, he saw Dumbledore striding towards him from station entrance. As usual, the man didn't look the least bit tired. Moody envied him for that.

He removed his hat, met Dumbledore halfway, shook hands.

"Goodbye, Alastor," said the Headmaster, "it was a pleasure seeing you again."

"The pleasure was all mine, Professor," Moody replied, loud enough for all to hear. Then he leaned forward and whispered, "How's our little friend?"

"On his feet, and not so little anymore," the Headmaster whispered back. "I imagine he'll be wanting a set of clothes." Then he said in a normal voice, "I hope you enjoy your trip. Say hello to our friends for me."

"I shall." Moody released his hand as the train whistle sang. He put on his traveler's hat and stepped off the platform onto the train. Five minutes later, the train began to roll away from the station. As it picked up speed, Moody stuck out his hat and waved at Dumbledore, who waved back. A few seconds later, the train vanished into the forests surrounding Hogwarts.

Several hours later, the Hogwarts Express reached Platform 9 ¾ at King's Cross, London. As the passengers disembarked, the conductor noticed that they were missing one person—a strange old gentleman wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a heavy traveler's cloak. He had passed that man's compartment several hours back and heard him blissfully snoring in his seat. Thinking that he was still asleep, he hurried along the corridor to wake him up.

When the conductor reached Moody's compartment and slid open the door, there was only a quiet empty room…and an unlatched window.

At around the same time, in a hidden base somewhere in the mountains north of London, Sirius Black received an owl post from Hogwarts. The letter read as thus:

_I will be detained here for a while. Came down with a nasty bout of flu and rheumatism to boot. The Headmaster has suggested I stay for treatment. I will let you know when I am scheduled to return. Give my regards to the old farts._

_A. M._

* * *

_Saturday morning._

The long line of sleek black carriages bearing the Hogwarts studentry rattled along the bumpy road to Hogsmeade. Visitors usually traveled to the wizard town by foot, but this year was clearly an exception. Dumbledore had decreed the day before that, for security reasons, it would be best for the students to travel by carriage. Everyone was elated by the announcement. Carriages would surely cut the travel time to Hogsmeade by half.

No one had considered that speed would come at the price of comfort.

"H-How much l-l-l-longer-r till H-Ho-Hogsm-meade?" Hermione managed to say, as she clutched tightly at Ron beside her. Around them the carriage shuddered violently over the uneven country road.

"C-C-Can't say," Ron replied. "Sh-shouldn't be m-mu-much further-r-r."

Opposite them, Harry could only hope this was true as he was rocked from one side to the other. He spread his feet wide and planted both hands on his seat. This helped a bit.

Hermione said, "Aft-after this jaunt I-I'm going to tu-treat myself to a n-nice sta-ble meal at The Th-Th-three Broomsticks!"

Ron cracked a grin. "C-Care for some R-Rocky Road?"

BANG.

The carriage vaulted into the air as it hit a sharp bump. Harry felt his insides drop away as he was suspended in the air for a full second. His hair actually brushed the ceiling. Then he dropped back into his seat as the carriage hit the ground once more.

Adjusting his glasses, he spied Ron clutching his head painfully in both hands. Being the tallest of the three had its disadvantages.

"Y-You 'kay, Ron?" Harry asked.

Ron didn't look up. "A-Ask me later when m-my head's s-stopped spin-ning."

Hermione was smoothing his mussed-up hair, but also said, "Take that, cornball."

Just then, the carriage came to a halt. Harry sank into his backrest while Ron and Hermione tried their best not to fall off their seats. There was a chorus of loud whinnying, as if the invisible horses were all venting their relief.

"Finally," Hermione sighed and threw the door open. Sunshine flooded in, and beyond lay the tranquil, picturesque town of Hogsmeade.

A large colorful banner was strung from one end of the main street to the other—"HOGSMEADE'S 500th FOUNDATION DAY," it said in a myriad of rippling colors. Down the street and its adjoining paths, smaller banners stretched from building to building. Sunshine glittered on brightly tinted windows. The aroma of freshly-cooked food wafted from the line of booths on the street. In the distance, a band played a few notes in practice. It was still early, but the air felt heavy with the promise of festivities.

Harry smiled, even though there was a certain heaviness in his heart. When night fell he would be leaving Hogwarts. That thought kept him awake last night, but he forced himself out of bed that morning. This was his last day. Though he could not openly speak to his friends about it, they had forged a silent pact to thoroughly enjoy these last few hours together.

One by one they stepped out of the carriage. All around them the rest of Hogwarts followed suit, relishing the fresh air, warm sunshine, and stable ground. Here and there they spied a Hogwarts teacher standing among the students, giving last-minute instructions. Dumbledore had asked the Heads of each House to accompany their respective members, and a handful of other professors had come along for good measure.

Harry turned to Ron, who was still clutching his head. "Better now?" he asked.

"I guess," Ron replied. "Better than poor Neville, anyway." Ron motioned to the portly Gryffindor from the nearby carriage. Neville Longbottom had bent over with both hands on his knees, looking green and ready to retch, while Dean Thomas sympathetically patted his back.

"Where do we go first?" Hermione asked, looking around.

"With a ride like that, I don't think I'm ready for much of a meal," Harry said. "Let's just shop for a bit."

For the next few hours they wandered into all their favorite shops, starting from Zonko's down to Honeydukes. Harry spent a small fortune there on sweets for both his friends, even as Ron and Hermione got him going-away presents—Ron's was a regenerating stationary set ("To tempt you to write us") and Hermione's was a Wizard First Aid Kit ("You'll never know what might happen along the way"). They took a long time moving from one place to another, winding their way through the overcrowded streets. There was so much to see. Harlequins bearing golden masks and wooden swords pranced through the streets. In the plaza, street performers re-enacted how Hogsmeade was founded way back in the early 1500s. Confetti fluttered down onto the cobblestone roads, dropped by battalions of passing owls from the local Post Office.

It was early afternoon when they finally made it to their last destination—The Three Broomsticks. "Not a moment too soon," said Ron, looking ravenous.

"Let's just hope we can find someplace to sit," Hermione said as they came in through the door. "Oh, can I leave it to you? I need to have a word with Professor McGonagall over there."

"Give it a break, Hermione," Ron chided. "Even teachers want a vacation too."

Hermione ignored him. "If you find a booth, could you also order a butterbeer for me?"

"We'll handle it," said Harry. She left as they looked about for seats.

The Inn was doing good business today, Harry thought. All around him was a motley crowd of visitors. Wizards and witches of all shapes and sizes filled the tables. Dwarves sauntered to the bar, shouting for drinks. A lone ogre sat on the other end of the room, his table nearly bending beneath the amount of food piled upon it. A few surly goblins huddled in one corner table, casting furtive glances and whispering among themselves.

He found a recently vacated table near the door. After giving their orders, Ron nudged him and pointed at the bar. Harry turned and saw Professor Summershield leaning on one elbow, having an animated discussion with Professor Sprout. After finishing her mug of butterbeer, she dropped a few coins on the bar, bid Sprout goodbye, and headed for the door.

A number of boys turned their heads she passed. Who wouldn't? Adrianna Summershield was a pale-skinned, dark-haired, stunningly beautiful young woman. Harry didn't find this as impressive as the fact that she was the only Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher he knew that had lasted more than an entire school year. Ron, however, thought differently. He made sure he got a good eyeful before she left the tavern. Harry had to nudge him when Hermione returned to their booth.

"Was that Professor Summershield that just passed by?" she asked.

"Dunno," Ron replied, nonchalantly sucking on a sugar quill. "Was it, Harry?"

Harry tried not to smile. "It was. I imagine Professor Dumbledore asked her to come along for security reasons." He briefly wondered if Dumbledore had let her in on their plan.

Hermione sat down a good two feet away from Ron. "Perhaps. Or maybe she was taking the opportunity to let people ogle her. _Isn't that right, Ron?_" she said, scowling.

Ron put on his best scandalized look (which Harry had to agree was rather good, for Ron). "Hermione!" he cried. "I was NOT ogling her! How can you say that? I would never—look, just ask Harry."

She cocked her eyebrow at him. Harry merely tasted the pie that had been plunked down before him, and blandly said, "I think I need more ice cream with my slice." He got up and strolled to the counter, leaving Ron to his fate.

They spent the next two hours there, drinking butterbeer, and talking, and talking. They reminisced about their adventures from their First year to the present, dug up and dissected every embarrassing moment, sifted through every bright memory. Eventually the discussion drifted to how Sirius and Remus were doing, wherever they were. And of course, to Hagrid, gone far too long among the giants in the hills of Northern Ireland.

They still had some time when they left The Three Broomsticks, so they walked some more, meandering through the teeming streets of Hogsmeade until they neared the outskirts of town. There the road curved around a small, grassy hill, at the top of which lay a large flat rock surrounded by wildflowers. They climbed up the hill, wisps of dandelions clinging their legs. Without thinking, Harry bent and took one in his hand. They reached the top and sat down on the grass, leaning against the rock.

There was very little left to share, so they sat quietly together, listening as the distant sounds of voices and music drifted up to them. There was a slight chill in the breeze, reminding Harry that the summer had come and gone.

All of Hogsmeade lay before them, the dwindling sunshine bathing its shops and houses in shades of orange and gold. Its streets teemed with wandering students; practically everyone he had known in Hogwarts was there today. And upon the deep blue horizon, veiled by purple shadows, Hogwarts itself lay dreaming over the dark mirror of its lake. Its bright banners still floated high in the evening breeze, and the setting sun still flashed upon the highest towers.

A loud 'POP!' suddenly sounded from a nearby house. Harry looked just in time to see fireworks erupting from house's chimney. It hissed into the air and blossomed into a fountain of falling color. Soon other chimneys shot fireworks, illuminating the darkening sky. As they watched, the wind came again, and a cloud of dandelions blooms took to flight.

"Beautiful," sighed Hermione as she tucked her legs beneath her. Ron merely smiled, inched closer to her, slipped his arm around her shoulders.

This is all our world, thought Harry, spellbound. In here was everything that ever mattered to him, everything he had ever chosen to love. It seemed almost absurd that even now, a war was waiting to be waged, that should he fail all of this may well be blown to dust.

He was glad, then, for this moment.

Abruptly, Harry said, "Two weeks from now, we'll get together again at The Three Broomsticks. And I'll buy each of you a glass of butterbeer."

Ron smiled. "That a promise, Harry?"

"Yes."

"But don't say goodbye yet," said Hermione, as she rested her head on Ron's shoulder. "Not right now. Please?"

They sat together as evening came and the stars winked into view. And while this time was beautiful, and theirs to have, Harry knew it wasn't really perfect.

He stared sadly at the dandelion in his grasp, a memory glimmering in his mind. Even now he could imagine it held between the fingers of a pale, freckled hand, still see it being blown into a pristine puff, and hear a voice brightly coaxing, _Make a wish, Harry. _

Yeah, he thought. He blew at the dandelion. Tiny blossoms danced a fairy jig before his eyes.

_I wish I could afford to be more honest with you, Ginny, _he thought, watching the wind bear the dandelions away,_ And I wish you were here with us._

They stayed till six o'clock, till the windows of Hogwarts lit up as if to call them home. Then they retraced their steps to their carriage.

Their vehicle had remained where it was, but someone had drawn the shades of every window. Harry felt dread creep into his heart with every step he took towards it. He knew that the moment they stepped inside, it would be goodbye.

Hermione suddenly stopped walking. Ron and Harry turned to stare at her. She had lowered her head and was quivering slightly.

"I'll be okay," she mumbled. "Just…just give me a minute will you?"

If there was one thing Harry hated seeing, it was Hermione in tears. Ron liked it even less. He watched her, his lips drawing into a thin, hard line. Then he turned to Harry. "I don't care what Dumbledore said. Just say the word Harry, and we're going with you."

Harry didn't have the heart to rebuke him for talking about it. He felt that same guilt wash over him. Hogwarts was as much their world as it was his—didn't they have the same right to protect it?

But something in him pushed that thought away. He had to do this alone. Had to.

"Thanks, Ron," he whispered, "but the answer's still no. You know why."

Before Ron could reply, Hermione reached out and grasped his arm. "Don't, you two. Just don't." She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her robes and tried to smile. "I'm fine. Really."

They stood there together for a while, not saying a word. Finally, Ron lowered his head and said, "Well, what are we waiting for?" He stepped into the carriage, taking Hermione with him. Harry followed them in.

As their eyes adjusted to the dark, they saw Mad-Eye Moody silently waiting inside, hat and walking staff on his lap. His magical eye scrutinized each of them as they took their seats and shut the door. When they were settled, Moody turned on a small lamp on the wall and rapped the ceiling twice with his staff. "Get going," he muttered, "and _slowly_, mind."

The carriage shuddered forward, rocking from side to side. But the ride this time was stable enough for them to speak normally. Neither Harry nor his friends noticed—the cloaked stranger sitting beside Moody had completely arrested their attention.

Moody's eye turned to his companion. "Show them your face, lad."

The figure pulled back its hood. Ron's mouth dropped open; Hermione gasped, eyes round; for several seconds, Harry ceased to breathe.

It was one thing for them expecting to meet Harry's exact duplicate, but quite another to see it in the flesh. It was as if someone had placed a perfect mirror directly across Harry. The homunculus had the same mass of dark, messy hair, the same pale skin, the same emerald green for its eyes. An identical lightning bolt scar was etched on its forehead. It was even dressed like Harry, from the scarf of Gryffindor colors around its neck to the worn sneakers on its feet.

For five minutes, they stared at one another. The three of them said nothing. The homunculus said nothing back, but shifted its gaze from one person to another. It curved its hands tightly around its knees.

Finally, Harry said, "Say something."

He had not meant to sound rude, but curiosity had completely overtaken sensibility by this point.

His double obliged him. First it did something eerily human—it cleared its throat. Then it said, "Hello. It's nice to meet you," and smiled.

Beside him, Harry felt Ron flinch. He couldn't blame him—they could have been listening to a recording or a perfectly executed ventriloquist trick.

And that _smile_.

Moody, whose eye never ceased keeping watch, suddenly spoke up. "We're nearing Hogwarts." He nodded deferentially to them. "If there is anything you need to say, best say it now."

Harry nodded back, then reached beneath his seat and felt around for the bag he had prepared the night before. Inside were a few possessions he needed for the journey—a change of clothes, some toiletries, and his Invisibility cloak. Everything else he owned—his books, the Marauder's Map, his beloved Firebolt, was now in the care of Ron, Hermione and the homunculus.

He turned to Ron, who had woken from his stupor.

"Look after Hedwig for me, okay?" Harry said. "Don't let her get lonely."

Ron nodded. "I will. I promise."

Hermione hugged him then, her voice quavering. "Goodbye, Harry. And you remember _your _promise, okay?"

Harry felt a painful lump in his throat as he hugged her back. "I'll remember. In two weeks time, at The Three Broomsticks."

"I'll look forward to it," Ron said, taking Harry's hand and shaking it. Then he averted his eyes. "Take care."

"Yeah, you too Ron. Keep an eye on Hermione. Make sure she doesn't burst a vein studying for the O.W.L.S."

"That's it Harry, make me feel better," Hermione mumbled, sitting back and wiping her eyes.

"And don't make her cry either," Harry added.

"You're a fine one to talk," Ron said, grinning wryly.

Moody shut off the lamp as the carriage came to a halt. Hermione briefly kissed Harry's cheek before opening the door and stepping out. Ron gripped Harry's hand one last time, thumped his shoulder, and silently followed her.

"Go on," Moody said to the homunculus. It nodded to him and to Harry, and then left the carriage, closing the door behind it. The carriage lurched forward, bearing Harry and Moody away.

Harry had to force himself from pulling the curtains back for one last look. For several moments he just sat there with his eyes closed, feeling as if the all the life had been snuffed out of him. He said nothing for a long while.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the lamp was on again. Moody was watching him from his seat. "You know what must be done, lad," said the old man, not unkindly.

Not for the first time, Harry felt doubt nagging at his mind. But he could not afford to be weak, not now. Not in front of Moody.

He took a deep breath and said, "Robert Jerome Smith."

Immediately he felt a strange tingling sensation, beginning from his toes all the way to the roots of his hair. For few seconds he felt his flesh prickling all over, as if he were growing a second skin. Then the feeling passed.

"Give me your glasses and put these on," Moody said, handing him a pair of silver spectacles. Harry took off his round glasses and slipped the new ones on. Moody studied him for a minute, and then nodded.

"Impressive. Not even I can see through it. Dumbledore's outdone himself again." He reached into his pocket and gave Harry a small mirror. "See for yourself."

Harry peered at the glass, and received his second shock for the day. Again, it was one thing to be told he would look different, quite another to look in a mirror and see a stranger's face.

His messy dark hair had been completely replaced by short, neatly cut auburn hair. Instead of vivid green his eyes had turned the deep blue of the lake in summer. His lips were thinner, and his skin tone tan, as if he had spent hours working outdoors. Most of all, there was no trace of the lightning bolt scar on his forehead.

It was then that Harry realized that, at least for the meantime, he had escaped his own destiny. He had ceased to be Harry Potter.

* * *

_Saturday night._

Harry lay silently on his sleeping bag. He had been trying to fall asleep for some time, and failing miserably at it. He sighed and stared up at the ceiling of Hagrid's hut.

Moody had led the carriage here, saying, "This is where will stay for now, as per Dumbledore's instructions. We leave the grounds at midnight." The moment the carriage halted in front of Hagrid's house, Moody leaped out and hurried towards the door. After making sure no one was laying an ambush inside, he beckoned for Harry to follow. Moody took out his wand. With a few whispered words, he erased their prints on the footpath. The carriage clattered away, leaving them alone. Then they went inside.

Hagrid's hut was lit only by the moonlight filtering in through the dusty windows. Moody said, "Stay here for a moment while I prepare. Don't touch anything, and for Merlin's sakes don't turn on the light." He then walked to one window and peered outside. Satisfied that they were alone, he picked up a large, framed painting that had been propped nearby. The moonlight shone on it briefly and Harry caught a glimpse of its surface. It wasn't a painting at all, but a framed three-dimensional picture of a room. Harry quickly realized what it was—a picture of the room they were in, viewed from the outside!

Before he could form a question, Moody had fitted the frame onto the window with the picture facing out. He moved to the next window, picked up another picture of the room at a different angle, and attached it as well. Before long he had all the windows covered, and the room was flooded by inky darkness. "There," he heard Moody say, "now when someone comes snooping about the cabin, all they'll see living in here will be a bit of moonlight and a lot of dust sprites. _Lumos__."_

By the light of Moody's wand, Harry could see two sleeping bags spread on the floor. Moody stood close to the table, busy lighting a gas lap.

"It's a long wait till midnight, lad," he said, without looking up. "Best you get some rest for now. Powerful long way ahead."

"Where exactly do we go from here?" asked Harry. He tried to hide the note of unease in his voice. He still was not comfortable in Moody's presence.

"I'll tell you later, when we get out of the grounds," replied Moody. "Now, no talking. I've made the cabin light-proof but any spy worth his salt can hear us yammering in here. Try and get some sleep."

That had been three hours before, and Harry hadn't been able to get so much as a wink.

He looked about him. Hagrid's hut had not changed much, at least not physically. It was the little things—the gaps on the line of tankards and pots on the shelves, the underlying scent of mothballs from the closet, the layer of dust on the tables—that marked the absence of their owner. Harry had not noticed before how neatly things were arranged in the house, how ready for use, as if Hagrid had not meant to be away for long. Harry could imagine Hagrid's enormous frame trudging through the doorway, Fang barking loudly by his side—"'Ello der 'Arry. Sorry 'bout takin' so long. Not'un easy job being Ambassater, ye know."

A year ago, something in him had envied Hagrid, and Sirius and Remus. They were out there _doing_ something—actively opposing the Dark Lord—while he had to stay in the trenches with his head down. But now he could no longer complain. He was putting his life on the line along with everyone else.

Then the utter totality of that thought hit him, and he shuddered as a cold void gaped in his guts. He was not only facing the danger of Voldemort killing him, he was leaving his identity behind with someone else.

Even now he could see the homunculus sleeping (did it sleep?) on his comfortable four-poster bed. Tomorrow at breakfast it would be sitting with the Gryffindors in the Great Hall. It would be wandering the halls like any other student. It would be attending all his classes, doing all his homework, making all his grades. It would be speaking with McGonagall and Angelina about the Quidditch season. It would be with Ron and Hermione—it would even be dealing with Draco Malfoy. Not only was Harry courting death, he was putting his life in Hogwarts on the line.

And on the heels of that came another thought—what if he never made it back? Would the homunculus go on pretending to be him? Would they even realize he was gone?

Would Ginny?

Harry realized that his heart was beating much too fast. _Stop it,_ he said to himself,_ you're letting your imagination run wild, you ninny!_ In the first place, Dumbledore had done everything possible to keep him safe. Second, dying was NOT an option. He was going to win this. He was going to come back.

He lay flat on his back and threw his arm over his eyes, as if this would shut out his fears. But the thought of Ginny refused to stay quiet.

She may never know he'd left.

"She doesn't have to know," he muttered, "it's not in the plan."

_No, of course not.__ It's not in YOUR plan._

Then the thought came, unbidden:

_Ginny doesn't know about the homunculus. _

_But the homunculus knows about her._

The thought came so forcefully that Harry sat up in an instant. It was as if a switch flicked on in his head, illuminating everything in a harsh, bright light. That decided it for him—he had to tell her. She had to know.

He turned his head fearfully to the other sleeping bag, not five steps away. Moody lay on his back, wand near his right hand, hat on his chest. Both his eyes were shut and Harry could hear him wheezing softly. The old man was fitfully asleep.

He could do it, he realized. He could go now, while it was dark and no one was watching.

Harry quietly got up from his bed and put on his shoes. He reached for his bag and carefully withdrew his Invisibility cloak. Slowly, fearing the creaking of the boards, he inched his way to the door.

Hands sweating, teeth clenched tightly, he turned the knob. It felt like ice in his fingers. The door swung two inches open. Not a sound. Glad that Hagrid was prudent with oiling hinges, he allowed the door to open a little bit more. Just a little further and he could make it out.

_Creak._

Harry heard a snort behind him. The hair prickled on the back of his neck. He cast a look backwards, expecting to see that huge magical orb glaring at him.

On the floor, Moody muttered something in his sleep, then turned on his side. His brows furrowed, but his eyes remained tightly shut.

Harry briefly wondered how Moody could afford to be a bodyguard if he slept so deeply.

I will only be gone an hour, Harry told him silently. And before his mind changed again or his courage failed him, Harry put on his cloak and slipped out into the night.

_To be continued_


	4. In Memories

**The Phoenix and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter IV : In Memories**

Things had not gone any easier for Harry that summer after Fourth Year.

It was not as if things had changed in Number 4 Privet Drive, at least, not on the surface. His foster family the Dursleys were still every bit as nasty to him, Dudley every bit as fat, if not more so. They still made Harry do all the cleaning and the cooking and he still had to endure their caustic remarks. They never dared touched him, though. Especially not Dudley, who still smarted from the memory of a pig's tail sticking out of his bottom and the weight of an engorged tongue hanging from his mouth. So they left him well enough alone. As for Harry, he could still look forward to August, when he was scheduled to go to the Burrow and be with Ron and Hermione once more.

It wasn't the Dursleys that made his life difficult—it was his own thoughts. Memories of last school year's events often came drifting back to him, especially thoughts of Cedric. It seemed that the solitude he was given allowed bad memories to fester. They haunted him most in bed, in those odd moments between waking and sleeping. While he sometimes felt like talking to someone about them, he thought better of worrying either his friends or Sirius with his own depression.

"I can get through this," he thought to himself one night as he lay in his little bed. "I've gone through worse." He pulled the covers to his chin and tried to sleep.

That night he had a dream.

He dreamt he was back at Hogwarts, in the middle of a Quidditch tournament. The Chasers of Slytherin and Gryffindor streaked below him, the Quaffle nothing more than a red blur as it was passed from one player to the next. A flash of gold suddenly caught his eye, and in a heartbeat he was racing on his Firebolt straight down at the Snitch that was hovering a foot above the grass. One twist of the broom, one swipe of his hand, and the game was over—Gryffindor had won the last match of the season.

Harry drifted down onto the pitch as his teammates swarmed around him, cheering loudly and slapping one another's backs. Soon the crowd joined in, and Harry found himself in the midst of an excited mob. Before he knew it he was raised onto the shoulders of the Weasley twins and the Quidditch Cup passed into his hands. Grinning broadly, heartbeat thudding in his head, he lifted it high as the crowd around him chanted, "Harry! Harry! Harry!"

It seemed to go on forever. He had never felt happier, never more alive. Then he spied something from the corner of his eye.

Turning, he saw that the Hufflepuff team had gathered in one corner of the field. They stood in solemn, motionless rows, brooms clutched in hand. The line of players was broken by a gap in the middle. When Harry saw this gap he abruptly fell silent. And When the Ravenclaw seeker, Cho Chang, walked onto the pitch, he felt a cold twist in his stomach.

Cho was dressed in battered and muddied Quidditch attire, carrying her broom in one hand. She approached the Hufflepuff team and spoke with them. Harry could not make out what she said, but the team nodded in understanding. When Cho handed them the broom in her hand, Harry finally understood—the broom was not hers, but Cedric's.

It was no longer even a broom, Harry realized, but a coffin. Without a word, four Hufflepuffs hefted it onto their shoulders. Then, led by Cho, they all began to file out of the pitch in a funeral march.

Riveted, Harry watched the whole line of them go. Without thinking, he let go of the Cup, pushed himself off the Weasley twins' shoulders, and began shoving his way through the mob. He had to join them, just had to. He owed it to Cho and to Cedric. But the crowd surged around him, ruffling his hair, slapping his back, getting in his way. He fought his way to the edge of them, calling out to the passing team.

Cho turned to look at him. He had never seen her so beautiful and yet so distant. All the life and sweetness that had once drawn him to her had been bled from her features—Her face was wan and gray, her black brows etched over fathomless eyes. She said nothing; that blank look conveyed all that needed to be said. She left him to the crowd and the Hufflepuffs followed.

That was when Harry woke. The night was still and deep, yet despite the cold air he found himself drenched with sweat.

He sat up slowly and covered his face with his hands. At that moment he knew he could not face the Hufflepuffs out on the pitch. Neither could he face Cho. It was not fair: they had both lost Cedric and he was partly to blame. Why should he get to fly through the air while Cedric lay beneath the dirt?

It took all of two days' brooding before he decided that he was not going to play Quidditch that year, and probably not ever. It would be his penance. It did not seem like much, but it was something.

All that was left to do was tell them—McGonagall, his teammates, Ron and Hermione. He could already imagine what they were going to say, but he blotted the words out of his mind. They were going to have to live with it—he had already decided.

So he half-dreaded the last weeks of July, when he was set to go to the Burrow once more. Still, he packed up his belongings, put his trunk and Hedwig's cage out on the sidewalk, and waited. Presently, a battered old Sedan driven rolled by. Mr. Weasley was driving and Ron was there with him. "Company car," Ron said to Harry as he helped put the luggage in the trunk. "Perfect disguise for wizards on business, or so Dad says. I don't know—all that clunking from the engine makes everyone stare."

"I think it's perfect," Mr. Weasley said. "Nobody'll suspect a car like this to be owned by a wizard! Speaking of which, Harry, does a Rolls-Royce really roll?"

Ron talked the entire long trip to the Burrow, but Harry only half-listened. He could not stop thinking about how to even begin telling any of them his thoughts.

Life in the Burrow was a world of a difference from Privet Drive, but they were the same in the sense that, on the surface, things did not seem to change. Gnomes still squatted in the garden, the ghoul kept making noises in the attic when it felt things got too quiet, the odd collection of objects remained scattered throughout the house, and of course, its inhabitants were as lively as ever.

Despite the burden on his thoughts, Harry was glad to be among friends at last. The bustle of so many people was a welcome distraction. Mr. Weasley still pestered him with questions on how Muggle stuff like "elvelators" and "refereegerators" worked. Fred and George gave demonstrations of several new gags and devices they had developed over the summer, such as the Spitball Sniper and the Bluster Bomb. Mrs. Weasley merely sniffed, unimpressed, and praised Hermione for starting on lessons even during vacation. On her turn, Hermione tried to get both him and Ron to join her study sessions, and he and Ron made a sport out of finding excuses out of it. Ron would talk incessantly of chess and Quidditch, and occasionally Harry would spy him sneaking glances at Hermione at dinner, or lingering a little too long by the room where she was studying.

And then there was Ginny.

It was his third day in the Burrow. Harry had just taken a late shower and had come down into the dining room. Upstairs he could hear Fred and George's thundering experiments, and in the living room not far away, Ron and Hermione's muffled argument. Mrs. Weasley was by the stove, cooking lunch.

"Oh hello dear," she said as Harry walked in. "How are you feeling today?"

"I'm fine, thanks. Do you need any help?"

She smiled at him. "How sweet of you to ask," and shot an irritated glance at the floor above her. "There's little left to do here, unless you know whether the final ingredient to Frugard's stew is parsley or rosemary. I can't seem to remember…"

Harry shook his head. He'd never heard of Frugard's stew, but Mrs. Weasley had never made a meal he hadn't liked.

"Well," she went on, "that's all I need. Hmm, maybe Ginny remembers. I thought I saw her go outside—would you kindly go find her for me and ask?"

"Parsley or rosemary, right? Okay."

"Thank you, dear."

Harry went out into the garden. The sky was blue and cloudless and a warm breeze was blowing from the distant, dreaming mountains. Ginny was nowhere in sight, so he picked a direction at random and started walking.

His feet took him into the meadow beside the house. Like last year it was covered with wildflowers, but until today he hadn't noticed just how many there were. They carpeted the meadow with yellows and oranges, nodding together as the wind blew through them. As Harry strolled into the meadow his nose caught the mix of their fragrance, and he smiled. It was as if the summer felt it had to put on its best in the little time left before the fall.

Remembering what he had to do, Harry started walking towards a lone tree at the edge of the meadow. There he spied a pair of worn brown shoes, its laces striped like candy-canes, lying discarded on the ground. He came closer and peered around the trunk.

Ginny was fast asleep. Her feet were bare, her elbows propped against the tree's thick roots, her head leaning against the trunk. Her mouth was slightly open, a thin lock of bright red hair caught in its corner. In her hands a pair of knitting needles lay tangled with a half-finished scarf and a ball of red yarn. Another ball of gold yarn lay on her lap, and a beige cloth bag hung on a low branch nearby.

Harry was at a loss—should he disturb her just to ask whether parsley or rosemary goes last into Frugard's stew? He watched her for a few moments, half-hoping she would wake up on her own. Then something else caught his eye: a small hard-covered book lay open beside her right knee. The title on the cover was _Ginny Weasley's Treasury of Written Muggle Works_. Curious, Harry picked it up.

The book was turned to the last page, apparently the end of a short story. Harry thumbed to the beginning—the title was _Small Things. _For a few minutes he flipped through the pages, finding an odd assortment of poems, stories, songs, quotes, and passages that really didn't fit under any category, all in neat, cursive handwriting.

He was interrupted by the sound of yawning. Harry pried his gaze from the pages and saw Ginny stretching and opening her eyes. Her gaze fell on his feet, then flicked up to his face.

"Oh!" she squealed, leaping to her feet and nearly tripping over a root in the process. Her face had gone completely pink. Caught, Harry opened his mouth to explain—and found no words. They stared at each other for a long, uncomfortable minute.

"Harry," she said, as if describing the impossible, "how long have you been standing there?"

Harry blinked rapidly. "Er, not long…just a couple of minutes. I was looking for you."

She averted her dazed eyes. "Looking for me?"

"Yeah… your mum wanted to ask you something…"

"Oh, Mum…"

She realized something and began frantically untangling the yarn from the needles.

Harry went on, "Um, your mother wanted to ask about some ingredients for a stew…"

Ginny wasn't listening. She was trying to stuff everything into her bag while attempting to fix her hair. She was only barely succeeding in either.

"Here, let me help," said Harry. He stepped forward, and realized he was still clutching her book in his hands.

Ginny realized this too. She stopped for a minute, staring at it. Harry felt an absurd warmth on his cheeks.

"This is yours, I think…" he said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry." He thought that was a rather stupid thing to say—What else could he have been doing?

Ginny started putting on her shoes. "Um, thank you. Could you hold it for a bit?"

"Yes, of course." He waited as she continued to fix her bag and her appearance.

Finally she composed herself, drew in a deep breath, and said, "Let's start over, shall we? Good morning."

Seeing her calmed down made Harry relax as well. "Good morning. Here," he said, handing her the book. "Sorry if I startled you."

"No, no, it's okay. I didn't expect to fall asleep like that."

He motioned to the book. "I…didn't know you liked to read."

"Oh, it's a new hobby. I started reading some of the fiction books Hermione left lying around in our room. Seeing that I liked most of much she read she started lending me more titles."

"Is that hers?" he asked, nodding at the book.

She held it up and said. "Oh, this? She gave this to me for my birthday. It's enchanted. It reads aloud whatever's written inside."

She turned the book to the first page and said, "_Recitus_!" The book began to speak in a cultured, female voice:

_Must the winter come so soon?_

_Night after night I hear the hungry deer_

_wander weeping in the wood_

_and from his house of brittle bark hoots the frozen owl._

_Must the winter come so soon?_

"I copied my favorite works onto it," she went on. "Most of what I have here is Muggle stuff from Hermione's collection, although I started researching my own…"

Harry supposed it was only natural that Hermione and Ginny had become such good friends, being both girls and having to share a room. "That's a nice gift she got you," he said.

"Yeah," she replied, grinning. "Sometimes I just sit here and listen to it for hours."

Harry smiled himself and gazed about. "It's really peaceful here. I like it."

In her hands, the book went on:

_My secret love has stars for eyes_

_His face is wise and fair…_

Ginny snapped the book shut. Harry thought her face looked pinched. "You were saying something about Mum a while back," she said quickly.

Harry started. "Of course! Thanks for reminding me. Your mother wanted to ask if the last ingredient for Frugard's stew was—"

"Parsley or rosemary?"

Harry blinked. "Yeah. How did you—"

Ginny threw up her hands. "It's neither! You put in basil—BASIL! I swear she always forgets that one thing! Ooooo, come on." She grabbed her stuff, took Harry by the sleeve and began to drag him back to the house. "I'd better get back there quick before she chooses one or the other."

They hurried back into the meadow. Ginny seemed to realize something; she blushed and let go of his sleeve. Harry decided to fill in the silence.

"So, you often spend time out here?"

"I guess so. If anything it keeps those thugs Fred and George out of my hair." She rolled her eyes. "I mean that literally too—I happen to like my hair color, thankyouverymuch. Why do you ask?"

"Nothing, just curious. I haven't seen you much over the last few days."

Ginny looked a bit embarrassed. "Sorry, I haven't been a good host, have I?"

"No, no, that's not what I meant! I just realized, that's all."

"Oh."

Harry quickly changed topics. "So, you like reading stories then?"

"I love reading stories, though I love listening to them more." All around them, yellow and orange blossoms bowed with the wind. She paused to pick up a flower that caught her eye.

"Um, how about you?" she asked, looking at him. "Do you, er, know any good books?" She winced at the words.

"My Aunt and Uncle never got me any books," he replied. "They gave my cousin Dudley tons of books which Dudley never reads but never lends either."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

He grinned at her sympathetic look. "It's okay, I prefer Quidditch to reading. Although if you stick someone like Hermione in that situation I bet she'd be climbing the walls."

Ginny laughed. "That's mean!"

He grinned at her. "Well, it's true!"

They reached the Burrow by then, and Ginny called from the door, "Mum! It's basil! You're supposed to put in basil!"

Mrs. Weasley's voice floated out of the kitchen. "What's that? Put it in a basin? Whatever for?"

Ginny rolled her eyes as she removed her shoes. "I'm coming in to help—don't touch anything!" She placed the wildflower into a nearby vase and turned to Harry. "I better get over there. Sorry about making you go out of your way to get me."

"Oh, no trouble. It was nice out today, so I'm glad I did."

"Okay. I'll see you later."

"Later. Say, don't overdo the reading bit or you might end up another Hermione."

"I'll tell her you said that!" And she ran off before he could reply.

That was the first time he spoke to her that summer and, he realized later on, also the first time they'd had a real conversation.

Lunch was soon served, and the stew came out fine. For Harry, that wasn't the problem. The problem was the buttered vegetables.

On his end of the table, Harry gazed forlornly at the peas on his side plate. Mrs. Weasley had laid it on thick today—the mound of peas was as tall as the saltshaker. He never liked them, but it was impolite to leave them as they were. He had gone through about a fourth of the lot when Mrs. Weasley insisted he take another helping, and unceremoniously dumped another spoonful on his plate. Harry looked to Ron beside him for help, but as usual he was engrossed in a heated discussion with Hermione.

"I'm telling you," she was saying, "Professor Vector was correct! A five-ounce swallow simply cannot carry a one-pound coconut!"

Ron had a rebuttal for everything. "But it could've been an African swallow!"

Harry rolled his eyes, and glimpsed Ginny who was sitting to his left. She was slowly munching on a piece of broccoli with severely taxed look on her face.

He leaned closer to her and whispered, "Hey, you okay?"

She snapped out of her trance. "I'm fine."

"Just try and ignore them, okay? They can get really tiresome sometimes."

"Oh, I don't mind them," she sighed, "It's all this broccoli. Whenever Mum serves broccoli she makes us finish it. She used to trick me too—'It makes freckles fade away, Ginny dear.'"

Harry chuckled. "You believed her?"

Ginny put her fork down. "I was six, what do you expect? Urrgh, am I turning green?"

"Just about, and your eyes are watering. Are you sure you'll be okay?"

"In a minute. Or five," She swallowed painfully, and eyed his plate. "You don't seem to be making a dent on those peas."

"That's because your mother keeps sending reinforcements. I never took much to them, but I can't refuse your mum that easily."

She giggled. "I never knew that. What's wrong with peas? They're fine."

"Huh. I should ask you what's wrong with broccoli."

"You should try it."

"Aunt Petunia serves it all the time. I have a pretty good resistance to it by now."

They stared at each other. A conspiracy had formed.

"Under the table."

"When they're not looking."

Both gazed around them. Everyone was engrossed in a big discussion; apparently Ron and Hermione were infectious. They quickly brought their side plates under the table, exchanged them, and brought them back up. They shared a secretive smile before starting on their food. Five minutes later, the offending meals were no more.

"Finished already, Harry?" Mrs. Weasley beamed at him. "My, you certainly seem hungry enough. Why don't you have some more…" Her hand reached for the serving spoon.

"OH NO, er I mean, no, thank you Mrs. Weasley. I'm _very_ full."

Beside him, Ginny hid her smile behind a small, freckled hand.

* * *

The days passed by in idyllic peace, and for a while Harry had forgotten all about his troubles. The one problem he had was how to refuse Ron and the twins should they ask him to play Quidditch. He needn't have worried though. For days on end black clouds hurtled across the sky and rain came down in sheets. Mrs. Weasley absolutely forbade them to play Quidditch. 

"Don't tempt the lightning, for Merlin's sakes!" she said.

"Oh Mum, it doesn't matter what weather it is—we still have to play Quidditch at Hogwarts!" said Fred.

"Then play Qudditch at Hogwarts. While you're here, you do as you're told."

"Bloody English weather," Ron grumbled.

Despite Ron and the twins' wheedling, Harry complied with her wishes. So they spent their time playing Wizard Chess and other games, playing practical jokes, and finding ways to avoid studying with Hermione.

It hadn't always gone so well. Some nights, the memories came back.

Harry lay quietly in his bed, staring at the moonlight crawling across the posters on Ron's walls. He'd been trying to sleep for hours, but somehow his mind always circled back to the image of a coffin borne by four Hufflepuffs, and the cold, vacant stare in Cho Chang's eyes.

He wondered if Cho would ever give him that look, if she or the Hufflepuffs still blamed Harry for the loss of Cedric. Then again, whether or not they did hardly mattered. What mattered was Harry knew _he_ was to blame. There was no escaping that.

He'd been putting off telling Ron and Hermione about his decision, partly because it was sure to ruin the summer for all of them. But there was another reason—he simply didn't know how to begin. The mere idea of saying, "I'm quitting Quidditch," caused a painful lump to swell in his throat. He threw a worried glance at Ron, sleeping but a few feet away. He hoped that when the time came to tell him, Ron would understand.

Outside a cock began crowing. One glance at the luminous clock on the desk told him it was five-thirty in the morning. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep, so he might as well get up and do something. Maybe a cool bath would take his mind off of things.

Making sure not to wake Ron, he slipped out of bed, left the room, and walked down the dimly lit hallway. The bathroom was just around the corner. When he rounded it, he nearly ran into someone. One shrill squeal immediately told him who it was.

"Harry!" Ginny gasped. She was clad in her nightgown, a fact she quickly tried to hide behind her long bath towel. "What are you doing awake? It's not even dawn!"

Harry flushed and fumbled for an answer. What could he tell her? That he was thinking of quitting Quidditch and couldn't sleep?

"I…I guess I just felt like taking a bath early," he said. "I sometimes do that because the Muggles I live with don't like to see me using their bathroom." Then he peered at her curiously.

"I was going to take a bath myself," she explained.

"So early?"

"Oh…you don't know what it's like living with six brothers and two adults. It's always a race to use the bathroom first. I get ahead by waking up really early—no one else can seem to get up before six. I guess I kept the habit even after Bill, Charlie and Percy left."

They stared at each other for a minute, then Harry said, "Well, why don't you go ahead then."

"Oh no! Please, you first. You're our guest!"

"But you live here."

"So? I'll take forever in there. Go on."

"That's okay. You go."

"No, you go."

He grinned a little. "Not Hugo. Harry. And besides, ladies first?"

Ginny laughed. "Oh, fine. Why don't you get yourself something to drink in the kitchen while you're waiting? I'll be quick."

Ginny kept her promise. Fifteen minutes and a change of clothes later, they were sitting together at the dining table, having some tea. Talking with Ginny wasn't the same as having conversations with Ron, but at least it helped him forget what had happened earlier, even a little. He was thankful for that.

He told her, "Next time, though, I think I'll wake up a little earlier to take a bath."

She guffawed and said, "Sorry, but I don't think it's possible for boys to wake up earlier than girls." She sipped lightly from her cup, as if the matter were already settled.

Harry cocked his eyebrow at her. "That's what you think, is it?"

"Yes. I mean, look at my brothers. Look at Ron…well, I don't really need to say much beyond that."

"Okay, you've got a point. But I don't think all boys are that way."

She grinned, mischief dancing in her brown eyes. "Can you prove it?"

He grinned back. "Is that a challenge?"

She pushed her teacup aside and said, "It's really simple—all you have to do is wake up early enough to take a bath ahead of me. The one who makes the best of five days wins."

"Sounds tough. Is there a prize involved?"

"Huh, I don't know. What do you have in mind?"

"Loser gets to buy the winner one sweet of his or her choice at snack cart on the Hogwarts Express."

"Agreed. And by the way, I prefer the Strawberry Creampuffins."

They sealed the deal with a toast of their cups, and Harry went up to take his turn in the bathroom.

The next day, Harry woke up at five. Quietly slipping out of his bed, he picked his way to the bathroom, fully expecting to get there first. His hopes were dashed when he heard the water running inside, and Ginny humming to herself.

As he stood outside the door feeling like an idiot, he heard her say, "Why don't you make yourself some tea while you're waiting?"

"Yeah, fine," he said, then added, "I'll get here first tomorrow!"

"Sure you will." And she resumed humming.

Harry made good on his promise the very next day by waking up at four-thirty. He managed this by sleeping with Ron's alarm clock under the pillow. Hastily shutting it off, he groggily made his way to the bathroom. To his relief he got there first.

He wasn't so lucky the next day. Ginny got up fifteen minutes earlier than he did. Harry groaned and went downstairs again to wait.

When Ginny came down to the kitchen, she found him washing dishes at the sink.

"Looks like your mum left some dishes over for the night," he said. "I was just trying to lighten the load."

"That's not like Mum at all." She stared at the stack of unwashed plates. "Looks more like Fred and George came down for a midnight snack."

"A snack? Really? Looks like a full course meal to me."

"Tell me about it." She stepped forward to help. "You don't have to do this, Harry. How many times do I have to remind you you're our guest here?"

"Bosh. I've been living off of you for two weeks. I should at least do something productive."

She giggled. "If you really want to help, you can pay rent. Heaven knows we need it."

Harry found himself smiling. It was the first time he heard a Weasley make light of their being poor.

Ginny took the role of washing the dishes and Harry took to drying them. "I feel bad about you cleaning up after my brothers," she said. "I have a good mind to kick down their door and make them do the washing."

"I told you, don't worry about it," said Harry. "In any case, I think it's fun living with so many people."

She snorted. "Fun. Right. It's fun till _you_ become the object of amusement." She smiled and continued, "But they're all okay, my brothers. They may be big fat headaches, but they're never bores."

"You have any favorites?"

"That would be Bill, because he used to read to me a lot and give me piggy-back rides all the time when he was still living here." She brandished a fork at an unseen enemy. "I was Sir Ginny and he was my noble steed! Then we'd fight dragons and giants and rescue kindly grandmothers from evil tax-people.

"It was Ron, though, who took care of me when I started at Hogwarts. We don't talk as much as we used to now. And he can be such a prat, especially when it comes to Hermione."

Harry grinned widely. "You think so?"

"Oh yes. Sometimes I think he's taking after the thugs—I mean, twins." She turned to him. "Can I, uh, ask you a question?"

"Yeah?"

"Um, what's it like living with Muggles? Ron doesn't tell me much but I hear a lot from Hermione. They're not really that horrid to you, are they?"

When Harry did not reply, she turned her eyes back to the plates. "Sorry. That was kind of personal, wasn't it."

"That's okay," he replied, "I was just thinking. There're all sorts of Muggles, same as wizards. I'm sure there are nice ones out there; I just wish I could get lucky enough to find some. In any case, the people I live with are…" He searched for a word, but found nothing to adequately describe his uncle, aunt and Dudley.

"Rotten as radishes?" Ginny supplied.

He grinned. "Yeah, that's about right. Not quite as bad as Snape, but they'd be in the neighborhood. I have to cook and clean for them and do their gardening and stuff. Otherwise I'm not allowed out. I'm also the butt of my cousin's jokes. His idea of funny is me covered in soot from cleaning out the chimney." He stopped and saw her staring at him, wide-eyed.

"I get by, Ginny," he reassured her.

She shook her head. "It's not that. I just find it amazing."

"What's amazing?"

"That sounds exactly like how I get treated here!"

They stared at each other for a minute. Then Harry found he couldn't help it—he started laughing. Out loud. And Ginny laughed right along with him.

When they recovered, she said, "Sorry, I didn't mean to be impertinent. It's horrible that they treat their own relative that way. It must really get you down. I wish I could do something about it, like report them to the Ministry or something!"

"Don't worry about it. It's sort of a relief that at least SOMEONE knows how it feels."

"How do you get through it?"

"I keep thinking of my friends and when I can finally get back to Hogwarts. How about you?"

"What do you expect? I fight back!" She brandished the fork again. "I make my brothers realize that he who crosses Ginny Weasley does so at his peril! And if they don't like the rules, they can cry me a river."

He grinned again and dried the last of the plates. "You know," he remarked, "I've never heard you talk so much before."

She lowered the fork, surprised. "Huh?"

"I mean, you were always so quiet. Your brother said you liked to talk, but I didn't know just how much. It's nice to know you're normal."

For a while she just stood there, her face slightly pink. Then she huffed and said, "Is that so? Well, it would be fair for me to say I find Harry Potter's a normal boy after all!"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean I can have an actual conversation with him," she said with mock petulance. "Half the time he used to act like complete snob, talking to my brothers while pretending I wasn't there."

Harry stopped polishing his plate, feeling mortified. "Did I really?"

She sniffled. "Yes you did."

Harry looked contrite for all of five seconds before cracking a grin. "So cry me a river."

None of Harry's Quidditch reflexes could have saved him from what happened next. The next thing he knew, she had dumped a cupful of soap water down his shirt.

"Ginny!" he cried, pulling the wet cloth away from his body. "I'm soaking!"

She glared at him and started taking the plates to the cabinet. "So cry me a river."

After that, of course, Harry really had to take that bath.

The next day Harry got up even earlier, but he only beat Ginny by a margin of two minutes. With a tied score, neither could give ground. Much to Ron's surprise, that night Harry said that he'd be turning in at nine o'clock.

"What?" he demanded as Harry climbed into bed. "What the heck are you going to bed so early for? Is Wood haunting you?"

"Made a bet with Ginny," Harry said. "She said boys can't wake up earlier than girls. I intend to prove her wrong."

Ron blinked for several seconds, then said, "Well, she's right. Don't waste your time."

"Huh. Says you. I _can_ prove her wrong."

"Suit yourself, mate. It's your funeral."

How true those words rang when Harry woke up at three in the morning and felt like a corpse. Nevertheless, he pulled himself out of bed and somehow made it to the hall. There was Ginny, red-eyed, disheveled, and tottering. They made it to the bathroom door at the same time.

"You don't…look so good," he muttered.

"The pot…kettle…black," she replied.

"You okay, Ginny?"

"Ginny isn't here. Her spirit hasn't come back to her body yet."

Harry grinned and she sniggered. "So," she said, "who won?"

"Look," said Harry, "I don't even feel like taking a bath. So I say, let's not and say we did, okay? I'll buy you the Strawberry whatsits."

"Strawberry _Creampuffins. _And since this is an official draw, I'll buy you a sweet of your choice too."

"Fine. Chocolate Frogs. I'm going back to sleep."

"Agreed." And they promptly turned around and shlumped back to their rooms. As he fell back into bed, Harry thought that the best thing about the past five days was that he hadn't had a chance to get depressed.

* * *

They talked more often over the next few days. Ginny would join them in games and chores, give an occasional side-comment during a Wizard chess match, or help Harry arbiter a debate between her brother and Hermione. Harry found that her company gave yet another dimension to his life with the Weasleys, and he was glad for it. He'd never been bored or lonely in the Burrow, and now he was sure he never would be. 

It was the day before the end of summer vacation when Harry abruptly tried to tell Ginny something important.

They were sitting together on the porch, gazing out onto the sunlit lawn. She had been knitting her scarf then, listening to the lilting voice of her book, and he found himself asking her, "Keep a secret, Ginny Weasley?"

She stopped working and gazed at him. Her eyes read the look on his face, and she shut the book beside her. "Yes I can, Harry Potter."

He watched her wordlessly for a minute. Why was he going to tell her? It had come so unexpectedly, that need to talk. But why _her_? Maybe because he was nervous as hell about tomorrow and he had to tell someone before he burst. Maybe because she was a third party, or because she didn't care about Quidditch.

Maybe because he knew she would keep her word and never tell another soul.

He took a deep breath and said, "There's something I have to tell Ron and Hermione. I've been putting it off for a long while, but I can't anymore. Tomorrow I have to tell them. Well, not just them—the twins, Professor McGonagall, a lot of people at school. And…it's not something anyone's going to like."

He looked at her worried expression and quickly said, "I'm not sick or dying, Ginny."

"Oh."

"What I have to say, well, it's a decision I've made. I've given it serious thought over the past few weeks. I finally figured out how I'm going to say it, so I'm planning on telling Ron and Hermione on the Hogwarts Express…"

They sat still for a while, gazing at one another.

After a while, she said, "You do realize haven't really told me anything yet, don't you?"

Harry gave a nervous laugh and brushed back his bangs. "Er, right. I guess…I guess I'm not quite—"

"Is it that bad?"

He picked at a piece of grass near his foot. "…Yeah."

She nodded and said, "You don't have to say anything, then, if you don't want to."

Harry thought for a minute, and decided he was more relieved than anything else. He didn't have to say anything. Why did he feel he had to, in the first place?

"…Yeah, okay. You'll find out tomorrow, anyway. I guess everyone will be talking about it, so when you hear it, try not to be shocked."

"Oh. I see."

He felt the need to lie down, so he got up to go inside. "I think I'll take a nap. Tomorrow then."

"Okay," she said, then called after him, "You'll be all right, Harry."

He turned and smiled sadly at her. "We'll find that out tomorrow too, won't we?"

* * *

As it turned out, things _had _gone bad the moment he told them. 

Ron sat there in shock for a while. "You...you can't quit," he kept muttering. "You can't."

Hermione was saying, "But Harry, Quidditch is something you love to do. Please don't think quitting is going to help in any way..."

"You CAN'T quit!" Ron cried, bolting from his seat. "You're going to be the best Quidditch player there is and you're just going to turn your back on it all! You're going to throw it away? What's wrong with you?"

"There's nothing wrong with me, Ron," Harry replied, getting angry in spite of himself. "It's just something I have to do—"

"And you deliberately kept quiet until today, didn't you! You planned this all on your own! You had all summer and you didn't say a word _until the last minute, didn't you!_"

Harry raised his voice right back, and not five minutes later they were shouting loud enough to be heard five rooms away. Harry could not remember all of what was said, even hours after the haze of anger had settled—He supposed the mind shuts down under a lot of stress. But he remembered how all that shouting made him feel as if he were being pelted with pieces of glass.

Finally, the conductor came over and broke them up, saying they were disturbing the other passengers. He made Harry take a separate room further down the train. Without another glance at Ron, Harry marched into the hall. There was a small crowd gathered there, and when he came out they all averted their eyes. Except for Draco Malfoy. He stood to one side with Crabbe and Goyle, all smiles. _Why wouldn't they be happy? High times for them, right? Potty and Weasel had a falling out and they didn't have to lift a finger for it! What a joke, right? What a goddamn treat!_

Harry had used all his willpower not to slug that smirking face, and very nearly did anyway. But he saw Ginny standing there in the crowd. She hadn't looked away like the rest. Their gazes locked for a second; somehow she looked paler, smaller. There had been concern in her eyes—for her brother or for him, he could not tell. Harry opened his mouth to say something ("Well, what d'you think? Pretty bad wasn't it?"), but promptly shut it. Breathing hard, he stalked past them all towards the end of the train.

As he sat there alone in the compartment, he felt his anger fade, leaving only a vast regret. Their argument that had not shaken Harry as much as the look on Ron's face. He had looked utterly betrayed.

And Harry felt so tired, drained. Mercifully, after some time he found himself drifting off.

He woke when the whistle shrieked and the train came to shuddering halt. He rose wearily from the seat, head buzzing, a rotten taste in his mouth. He didn't feel one bit like moving from his spot, but he had no choice. Sighing, he brushed back his hair with one hand and slipped on his glasses. That was when he noticed something lying on the seat opposite his own. He reached over and picked it up. Then his lips formed a wan, regretful smile.

It was a small pack of Chocolate Frogs.

* * *

After that first hurdle with Ron, the rest of the work was comparatively easy. He did things with a single-mindedness that was almost ruthlessness. First, he spoke with the Quidditch captains, Fred and George. Neither had outbursts like Ron's; apparently they knew they owed him their life's work. They begged and pleaded and offered him all sorts of bribes, but Harry remained adamant. Next was Professor McGonagall. When he told her, the Headmistress of Gryffindor did not react. If she felt disappointment or anger, it did not cross her mind to show it. She merely gazed at him coldly through her spectacles and said, "Very well," then went back to her paperwork. Harry left her office feeling more depressed than he expected to be. Lastly, there was Professor Dumbledore, who alone took it well. 

The rest of the school was surprised by the news of his decision, but it had been merely the first of a long line of surprises. Hogwarts had two new teachers. The first was Professor Cowl, who replaced Snape as Potions Master. Of course, rumors of Snape's whereabouts flew thick and fast.

"He's been sacked!"

"He's found a better job as new Headmaster of Durmstrang!"

"He's hiding from the Dark Lord and ran away to Finland with a jazz band!"

Many theorized he was working as an agent for the Order of the Phoenix, but there was neither proof of this nor of the Order's existence. Snape had vanished with no more explanation than the official one—he was on holiday in Siberia, for health reasons. To this Ron commented, "If there is anyone in the world who could get healthier living in Siberia, it would be Snape." Amen, said the Gryffindors.

Professor Julius Cowl was a tall, balding man in his mid-thirties, with large ears and spade feet. He was always immaculately dressed, but often kept pushing up his glasses and nervously tugging at his robes, as if these didn't fit him well. He'd also bring a dozen Potions books with him to class, packed in two bulging briefcases. When he lectured, he'd read straight from a book without ever looking up. He never asked questions. Exams were all written. He never made a real potion let alone touched any of the instruments on the table. In his own words, Potions were all about "exposition, exposition, exposition." This of course, was no problem with Hermione, but did absolutely nothing for Harry or the other students. It got bad for the Slytherins in particular, who practically lost a doting godfather. They called Professor Cowl the cruelest things behind his back and almost never turned in homework.

"They're just plain awful!" Hermione remarked one lunchtime. "Some of them openly sleep in class!"

"Well," said Harry, "it's not as if the Professor notices."

Defense against the Dark Arts class was quite the contrast. From the moment Professor Adrianna Summershield swept into the room, all eyes were on her. They stayed on her from the moment she said hello till she bid them goodbye. And when she left, the room went abuzz with talk.

"I don't believe it!" said Hermione. "She must be no older than twenty-five!"

"Let's hope she's more than her looks," said Harry.

As it turned out, she was a capable professor. Certainly not in the caliber of Lupin or Moody (the fake one, that is), but close enough. Her style was always the same—lecture in the first half, hands-on in the second. In this way they tackled stirges, will-o-wisps, frostlings, and lastly, imps. The only complaint Harry had was that she was rather slow in getting to the next topic. It was as if there was not much road to cover, and she was purposely taking her time.

No one else seemed to notice, though. In the days that followed, there appeared to be a gradual change in seating arrangement—boys occupied the front area more, and girls stayed at the back. Everyone found her pleasant and accommodating, even if she was a bit of a loner. Lavender and Parvati disliked her for some obscure reason. Well, thought Harry as he observed the class, maybe not so obscure.

Harry hadn't the chance to talk with Ginny again for a week—schoolwork and that business with Ron simply took him away. Then one Saturday, he spotted her sitting by herself at the Gryffindor table, idly writing in the same book he had picked up in the meadow. As he gazed at her, he was seized by a sudden thought—he hadn't bought her those sweets he'd promised.

He approached her and said, "Hello, Ms. Weasley."

She looked up at him in surprise, but only for a moment. "Mr. Potter!" she said with measured cheerfulness. "How nice to see you again."

"Ginny, you saw me just yesterday, at Gryffindor. We said hi."

"It's nice to see you _up close_, for once."

He chuckled. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry we hadn't had a chance to talk. Mind if I sat down?"

She said nothing, but looked down at her book and started writing again.

"Please, Ginny?" he said, sincere as can be. "I'm really sorry. Really."

Again, she said nothing.

"Look, I'll get you the Strawberry Creamwhatsits on the next Hogsmeade weekend."

She looked up again. "_Creampuffins._" But she smiled this time, and made space for him to sit beside her. They whittled away the afternoon in the Great Hall, talking as they had in the Burrow. Harry had a great time; Ginny never seemed to run out of stories.

"So I said "Wingardium Leviosa' and did the swish-and-flick thing with my wand, but the feather didn't float! So Professor Flitwick said, 'Try again,' and when I did…the feather shot off my table like a dart and struck him on the nose! Poor Professor Flitwick was so shocked he tumbled off the stack of books he was standing on."

Harry had laughed so hard he'd gone beet red. "And that was when the stack collapsed on him and you had to dig him out?"

"Stop laughing!" said Ginny. "It wasn't funny. I was lucky he was too nice to give detention to a First Year."

* * *

While talking with Ginny was fun, it wasn't the same as talking with Ron. However, they hadn't said a word to each other throughout the whole of September. If Harry had to know something important, he had to talk to Hermione. It was Fourth Year all over again, and this time things were even worse. It was physically impossible for him to study in the same room Ron was in, and even eating at the same table became a chore. He could not be sure how Ron felt about it all, but he was downright miserable: not speaking like this made him feel like he'd been holding his breath for far too long. 

As such, life with Malfoy had become even worse; he got vicious at every opportunity.

"Awww, are the lovebirds still having a spat?"

"Why so glum, Potter? Don't have your Ronniekins to hold your hand, hmmm?"

"Kiss and make up! Kiss and make up! Kiss and MAKE-UP!"

The Slytherins would roar in laughter and join the chant. Harry would grit his teeth as he walked past. He couldn't say anything. Not if Ron wasn't fighting back either.

Hermione liked the situation between the two even less. She would spend her time finding ways to get them to talk to each other. She'd plead, cajole, threaten, stomp her foot, slap Ron upside the head—nothing worked. Ron remained adamant, Harry likewise. Finally, Hermione decided on the extreme: she tricked them into going inside a pitch-dark walk-in closet containing a boggart, and locked the door.

It had gotten nasty, but it worked. Despite opening old wounds all of the first hour, they were forced to work together to get out and in the process, made up. Of course, both of them ended up not talking to Hermione, but that didn't take her half as long to patch up.

* * *

The days went by in Hogwarts—life was slow and uneventful, for once. Perhaps it was the absence of Snape that did it. Perhaps because there hadn't been a single sign that Voldemort was back in the world. So for the most part, the students of Hogwarts went on with their lives as if the last year hadn't happened. 

For Harry, there had been a thread of unease he couldn't ignore.

Since the school year began, his scar had been occasionally bothering him. Sometimes it would itch or burn for a little while, other times the pain would lance through his forehead before instantly vanishing. Harry thought of telling Dumbledore about it, but then again, he was not comfortable with the idea of running to his office with every minor ache he had. Besides which, there was really nothing much to tell. There was an itch, a sting, then nothing.

It was the middle of October when finally Harry got an idea of how bad things were eventually going to get.

One night he woke in agony, screaming and clutching at his scar. Every boy in the dormitory woke with a start. Ron stumbled out of bed, demanding to know what happened. Harry remained huddled where he was, trembling in pain and fear. It was as if someone had traced his scar with a white hot razor. It took several minutes for the pain to die away so he could finally think.

Voldemort had done something very hateful—perhaps even murderous. But try as he might, he could not recall enough of the nightmare to figure out what it was.

Part of the answer came the very next day.

Harry could clearly remember that moment. It was breakfast time and everyone had gathered in the Great Hall. Harry had just finished eating when an owl flew in and dropped the Daily Prophet in front of Seamus who sat beside him. Seamus read the headlines aloud.

_"…a 42-year old Muggle Michael Dunn and his three wizard sons Justin, Douglas and Sean, have been missing for the past 72 hours. The Dunn family was last seen in Balder's Hill, preparing for a weekend camping trip. Officials believe they had lost their way to the campsite…"_

Harry's skin prickled as Seamus skipped to the description beneath the picture.

_ "Michael Dunn and his three sons. Rescue Wizards are combing the forests south of Balder's Hill. If you have seen any of them, please inform the Ministry of Magic…"_

Against his will, Harry turned and looked at the picture on the paper. His fears were confirmed—both the name and the kindly face of the missing man were those from his dream. He felt his blood turn to ice water as he watched the man's three handsome sons squeezing into the small frame, waving up at him. Voldemort had called this man by name, had personally done something to him and his sons.

He had heard it, the high voice of the Dark Lord—

_"Watch them carefully, Michael Dunn. Can you see the life ebbing from their eyes? I never tire of watching that."_

_And the man was crying, screaming through the bars of his cage. "No! Please let them go! I'll do anything you ask—just don't let them die, I beg you!"_

_"Their deaths will not be in vain, my friend. They shall die for you. So you will become stronger. So you will know what it is like to hate."_

He sat still, staring at Michael Dunn's kindly face. In his mind, it seemed to be twisting, turning feral, angry. It was something not human. Something very, very bad.

Beside him, Ron was commenting, "Is it me, or are more people getting lost in the woods nowadays?"

"If they're lost, I'm sure they can use the Point-Me Charm to find their way," Dean said.

"It's not much help if they don't know where they are," Hermione interjected. "It's the Rescue Wizards' job now."

"So, what're we doing for Potions later?" someone asked. "What? Not another quiz! What is it with Cowl?"

Ron said, "Don't get me started on Cowl! Did you know that Colin and Dennis have started a poll? 'Which Professor is more boring: Binns vs. Cowl!' I heard they were thinking of a title fight where both give lectures and we see which puts the most students to sleep."

"Oh, stop it," said Ginny. "Don't make fun of Professor Cowl. He gets enough of that from the Slytherins."

Dean—"Skeeter's writing again? Lemme see—"

Parvati—"I hear Summershield likes—"

Neville—"Could someone pass the pepper—?"

"Harry?" Seamus suddenly said. "Harry, are you all right?"

Harry's skin had lost all feeling. Everything sounded odd and distant. The faces looking at him had turned into bright blurs. His throat burned. It hurt to breathe.

"Harry?" Ron was looking at him, puzzled. Harry felt him touch his shoulder, and flinched as if stung.

"I need to get out," he said hoarsely. He stood and left his seat without another word.

When he got to the doors of the Great Hall, he broke into a run.

He ran as if it meant his life. Shouts came from behind, some running feet, but he did not stop or turn. He kept on going—out the Hall, down the steps, swerving through a crowd, past bewildered faces of students and teachers. Figures in paintings turned to watch. A suit of armor he passed saluted stiffly. Somebody shouted, "No running in the halls! No running—"

He hurtled through the main doorway and into bright sunshine. Before he knew it he was sprinting across the grass towards the lake. When he made it to the shore he started running along it, going clock-wise around the lake. Presently he found what his mind had been half-looking for—a lonely copse of trees on a grassy hillock he'd once seen on the road to Hogsmeade.

He ran behind the largest tree and collapsed on his hands and knees. He felt his stomach convulsing, then came the bitter taste of bile. His hand clamped onto his mouth. He didn't know how he held it down, but he did.

He crawled to the tree and sat down, leaning against it. His eyes strayed to the lake on his right. It was a moving mass of deep blue, glittering beneath an autumn sun. It looked beautiful, but it only invoked a sharp ache inside of him. Somewhere on this earth, a man and his three sons were never going to see anything like it ever again.

The lake vanished like a mirage before his eyes as a pain-filled moan filled his ears. It sounded like a dying animal, and at first he couldn't convince himself that it came from him. He screwed up his eyes and clamped his jaws shut, but all the same tears burned their way down his cheeks and sobs broke from the deepest part of his lungs. It seemed almost ludicrous—he was crying, for someone he'd never met. But some internal voice told him he had to mourn them, because no else could. No one else knew but him.

Perhaps he also mourned for himself, for that same reason.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, waiting for his grief to empty itself. When he looked up again, the shadow of the tree had shifted some feet away and the breeze was cooler on his face. He felt empty and exhausted, but he knew that things would only get worse the longer he stayed there.

Wiping his face, he got up to walk back to Hogwarts. But just as he rounded the tree, he stopped.

Ginny was sitting on the other side. She'd been so quiet he hadn't noticed her there at all.

She looked up and met his gaze. "Hi," she whispered. "Do you want to go back now?"

He stood there, wondering at her, until she repeated the question.

"I don't know," was all he could reply.

She lowered her head, and in small voice, said, "We could just stay here, if you like."

Classes, he almost said, but pushed the thought away. He couldn't, not looking like this.

"All right," he said.

She seemed grateful and shy at the same time, making space for him to sit beside her while keeping her eyes averted. Harry sat on the grass and crossed his legs.

He was afraid to ask, but couldn't help it. "How long have you been sitting here?"

"I got here a few moments after you did…I…I saw you running away, and everyone stood there staring. I couldn't…well, I didn't think. Ron and Hermione are looking for you too. I ran out here and…and I heard you. I'm sorry, I…"

He nodded. "Guess I catch people's attention no matter what I do, huh?"

"It's not like you did anything wrong! Sometimes…people need to get away…"

She fingered a blade of grass beside her for a moment, then drew a breath and said, "Harry, what happened? Can you tell me? I…I want to help if I can. I don't like seeing you like this."

"I don't like it anymore than you do. But no, I don't think you can help."

"But, but why? I don't understand."

He longed to tell her. He wanted to let her know that he sometimes knew these terrible things. He wanted to let her know how he felt so helpless and angry. How much he hated being Harry Potter.

And yet, he felt there was no way to describe its totality. He felt that if he tried, his faltering words would burn him as anew, that he'd break down again and cry like a child in front of her.

"Harry?" she persisted.

"I, I need…" He swallowed, tried not to shudder. "Time. I just need a little time."

She watched him, disappointed that he wouldn't say any more. She pulled her knees closer to her body. "I…I could go…" she whispered.

He felt something tighten in his chest. "Don't," he said. Then, more gently, "Don't."

They sat still for a time. He waited for her to ask again. He knew she wanted to ask why.

But she didn't anymore. Side by side, they continued to stare at the gentle waves on the lake, and at the sunlit wildflowers that nodded with the wind. After a while she looked at him, smiled, and picked up a dandelion near her shoe. She held it up. "Make a wish, Harry."

He returned her smile sadly. "Do they count for anything?"

"They do. They always do. Trust me."

So he closed his eyes—

_I wish that no one would ever suffer because of me_

—and blew on the dandelion in her hand. The little tuft burst into a cloud of spiraling wisps. Ginny picked up another dandelion and blew on it. Her cloud mingled with his, and they watched the dandelions rise into the air, borne gently by the wind.

It was a good half-hour before they spoke again. "Better now?" she asked.

"A little better, I guess."

"Let's go back then. Ron and Hermione must be having seizures by now."

As they stood up and dusted their robes, he caught her eye and said, "Ginny?"

"Hmm?"

"I just realized…I haven't even gotten you your Creampuffins yet."

Another one of her little smiles lit up her face. "That's all right. I only like watching them waddling around anyway. And Mum always told me not to play with my food."

It was strange to see her take his hand and look him in the eye, and not even blush.

"Will you tell me, someday?" she asked.

Her hand was small and soft and warm in his. It was an odd, sweet warmth that spread throughout his body, easing his grief. And something in him responded. He gave her hand a light squeeze.

"I will, Ginny. Someday."

* * *

Curiously, though both Harry and Ginny did get separate detentions for missing class, none of their friends mentioned the incident. The Gryffindors never asked Harry if he was all right, though he sometimes saw them watching him from the corner of his eye. It made him uncomfortable. Once again it crossed their minds that he was different from them, that he, as Rita Skeeter mentioned, was 'unstable.' But he could hardly blame them this time. Not with the way he'd behaved. 

Ron and Hermione tried to ask him what had happened, but each time they tried Harry always managed to change the subject. It worried Hermione and frustrated Ron to no end, but to Harry's relief they eventually quit asking.

But Harry could not escape Dumbledore. The Headmaster called for him that very evening, although not to his office. They met at a deserted balcony, overlooking the expanse of the Forbidden Forest.

As they stood together, gazing at the moon as it rose over the forest, the Headmaster said to him, "I do not wish to add to your burden, Harry, by having you recount what you have seen. I am also sorry I have not given you time to recover. It is difficult, but…"

"…People's lives may depend on it—I understand, sir," Harry finished. He did not mean to be rude, but he felt very weary. He wanted this to be over. He did not look at Dumbledore. He did not want to see pity or sympathy in the old man's gaze. No one could ever understand how much he was suffering. He did not want to see anyone try and fail.

So he told the Headmaster what he saw as stoically as he could, though he still had to pause several times. Dumbledore did not interrupt or bother to ask questions. Half an hour later, he let Harry go.

As Harry lay in bed that night, he waited for another onslaught of nightmares. They came, but only as repetitions of what he had already seen. Just shadows plays in his head, destined to fade. No more agonizing visions came to him in the months that followed, and for this he was relieved.

His friendship with Ginny grew as the year went by, something he was very thankful for. They talked often, sitting together at Gryffindor Table long after classes were done. She would go with them on trips to Hogsmeade. She chose to stay at Hogwarts for the holidays, and when Christmas Day came Harry found a gift from her sitting at the foot of his bed. He read the attached letter, and opened the gaily-decorated box.

It was the scarf she had been making all summer. Harry held it up and gazed at it in wonder. Golden griffins played on a red background, no two of them alike. At each end of the scarf, two large griffins stood upright, wide wings outstretched like sun rays. In their beaks each held a rose as if in offering. The edge of the scarf was trimmed by golden vines. The wool was soft and carried a ghostly scent of lilac.

Hardly believing his luck, he left the dormitory to find Ginny and say thank you. When he got to the balcony, he found her sitting in the Common Room with some very amused Gryffindors, staring at the table where she had placed Harry's gift for her.

On the table were dozens of red and pink Creampuffins, waddling here and there, looking over the table's edge and blinking up at the onlookers with their caramel eyes. Ginny watched them in delight. Then she seemed to sense him watching her and gazed up to where he was. A smile formed on her lips, as it did in her eyes.

It would've been perfect. It would've been one of the best friendships he'd ever had. Then one day in late January, while walking with her from the Library, he accidentally dropped his glasses on the floor, and she picked them up and put them back on his face. Then everything changed.

* * *

The main doors had long been locked, so Harry took a secret entrance located behind a bush, on the east wall of the school. With his Invisibility cloak on, there was no danger of being seen, but Harry was careful as he picked his way through the dark, sloping passage, one hand splayed on the wall to guide him along. Moody and Dumbledore spoke of a spy in Hogwarts. He hoped he was sleeping right now, whoever it was. He forced himself not to think about what would happen if he got caught through his own carelessness.

The tunnel exit was hidden behind a tapestry. Harry lifted it aside and stepped back into the halls of Hogwarts. It felt odd to be back here. He had walked through these halls countless times before during the day and night, yet the wide, moonlit halls looked alien to him now, its curtains and carpets only vaguely familiar. He didn't know if this had to do with his leaving Hogwarts, or because an unknown intruder was lurking somewhere in this school.

He looked from one end to the other, listening for footsteps. Not a sound could be heard. Nodding to himself, Harry slowly made his way up to Gryffindor Tower.

The walk seemed torturously long. Sweat pasted his hair to his neck, his jaws hurt from the strain of being clamped shut. But he made it to the portrait of the Fat Lady just the same.

She was fast asleep on her enormous chair, one cheek cushioned by a hand. Here, Harry had no choice but to show himself. After one last furtive glance around, he took off his Invisibility cloak and said, "Harry James Potter."

Instantly, he felt his skin crawl and swell as his own form returned. Tucking his folded cloak beneath one arm, he then looked up at the Fat Lady and coughed loudly. She snorted once, but remained asleep.

"Excuse me!" Harry said. When she did not respond, he rapped his fist on the portrait.

She nearly leaped out of the chair. "Good heavens!" she cried, and peered down at him in drowsy anger. "You! Didn't I let you in already?"

"Rumplestiltzkin," he said.

"Yes, yes," she said bemusedly. "But I could've sworn…"

Harry had neither the time nor the mood to be polite. "No you haven't. Do you mind?"

She huffed, but allowed the portrait door to swing open. Harry scrambled into the Gryffindor Common Room, careful to leave the door ajar.

As he had hoped, the room was empty. Despite his relief at this, Harry thought there was something sad about seeing only the moonlight occupy the cushy chairs, and only ash sitting in the normally cheery fireplace. He did not want this to be his last memory of his Common Room.

He snapped out his reverie as he heard the Fat Lady's gentle snoring from behind him. There was little time to spare. He hastily made his way up the stairs to the girl's dormitory. He was in the process of turning the door handle when he abruptly stopped.

What was he doing?

Was he really thinking of going in there, waking Ginny in the middle of the night to tell her some fantastic story about Harry Potter and his amazing double? Was she going to swallow all that? He could already imagine the look of disbelief on her face, followed by a disgusted glare. It sounded like a prank worthy of the twins. Maybe she wouldn't even let him talk—she could just as well throw him out the moment she laid eyes on him.

_Do I really have to talk to her?_ he wondered. _Maybe I don't. Maybe all I need is to see her face again. _

He could settle for that. That had been the plan all along. He didn't have to wake her. He didn't have to tell her anything. He could just look at her face again as she slept. And, with that captured in his mind, maybe he too could sleep.

He added a little more pressure on the doorknob. It squeaked as if in protest, and from the other side, a voice said, "Who's there?"

Harry leaped back and nearly toppled down the stairs. At the sound of his steps, the voice called again, "Is someone there?"

Caught. Guilt and panic surged through his veins, and it took several seconds before it occurred to him that the voice was familiar, that it belonged to—

"Hermione?" He stepped forward, relief washing over him. "Hermione? You're awake?"

The door opened a crack and a pair of wide eyes peered fearfully at him in the gloom. There was a gasp and the door swung open completely.

"What—!"

"Quiet!" Harry hissed at her, stepping closer.

"Harry! But, but is it—I mean, it's really _you_, isn't it?" She reached out as if to touch his face.

"Yes, yes it's me, Hermione," he replied, grasping her hand. "Why are you awake?"

"I couldn't sleep. I was going to get a glass of water when I heard a noise and…Oh Harry! Wait here—I'll go wake Ron!"

"No, just a minute!" he said, stopping her. "You can't...I mean, I don't have much time."

"But I thought you left already! The carriage…"

Harry swallowed, looked her straight in the eye. "I decided to take some good advice before I go."

Hermione stared him, confused. Mustering his courage, he said, "Can I…can I go in and see Ginny?"

Her eyes widened in surprise, and then filled with comprehension, then just as suddenly, excitement. "Wait here," she said. She turned and ran down the corridor.

"Wh-where are you going!" Panicking, Harry made a grab for her hand but missed. "You're not going to—"

"Quiet!" she admonished, and vanished into the shadows.

Harry waited in the doorway, palms dampening anew, heart pounding much too loudly in his ears. Twice he started down the stairs, but something kept him going back. He had come too far. He had to see this through.

It did not take long for him to hear the soft sound of approaching footsteps. His heart leaped to his mouth as he heard that familiar, sleepy voice: "Hermione, d'you have any idea what time it is?"

"One minute, one minute," wheedled his friend. "It's just something you have to see."

They stepped into the slant of moonlight from a nearby window. Ginny was in her pale blue nightgown, rubbing her bleary eyes, her pillow-tousled hair lying free on her shoulders. Harry was struck by the sight of her; she had looked just like that once, back in the Burrow. The memory filled him with a sudden, sweet ache. Somehow that time no longer seemed so far away. He felt he could breach that barrier of two summers here and now, if he so wanted.

Hermione whispered, "Harry? Are you there?"

At the mention of his name, Ginny froze. The hand that had been rubbing her eye fell to her side.

"Yes," Harry said softly. He kept his eyes on Ginny as he stepped into the light. "I'm here."

For a moment, they merely regarded each other.

Then she broke the silence. "Harry," she said, frowning. "Isn't it a little late for us to be talking?"

Harry flinched. Everything he'd thought of saying fled from his brain. It took every inch of his will to remain standing where he was.

"You're right," he said after a moment. It sounded like the right thing to say. "I'm sorry I bothered you…"

He paused, eyes flicking to Hermione. Her eyes seemed to reassure him. _Go on._

"I came here because I wanted…because I thought we could talk for a bit."

"I don't know if we've anything to talk about," she replied.

"We do," Harry said quickly. "There's something I have to tell you. If you'd only listen—"

"If I say no?"

Hermione spoke up. "Harry's leaving, Ginny. Dumbledore's sent him on some kind of mission, and he came here to say goodbye."

Harry felt at once relieved and dismayed by his best friend's interruption. Helplessly he watched Ginny look at Hermione in surprise, then drag her eyes back to him. He swallowed again, stepped forward. "Can we talk, then? Alone? Please?"

She did not respond, did not even seem to know what to say. Her white hands clutched at the hem of her gown. He took another step towards her. "Ginny?" When was the last time he said that name out loud? And why did it feel wrong to say it?

She stood there quietly, eyes shifting to and fro, looking at anything but him. Finally she looked up and nodded once.

Harry felt that odd mix of relief and nervousness surge again in his veins. He nodded numbly to her as if in thanks, and turned to Hermione. "Go ahead," she said, "and hurry up! I'll just go make sure they're all asleep. Heaven knows," she added, in a low voice, "Ron's never going to forgive me if he found out you were here and I didn't even wake him."

Harry nodded again, turned and started down the stairs. He heard Ginny's light footsteps follow behind him, not too closely. He swallowed. His tongue tasted of sun-baked sand.

In a few moments he found himself in the Common Room once more. The moonlight from the window cut a pale box in the middle of the floor. Harry stepped into it gingerly and turned around. Ginny followed, watching him cautiously. Harry watched her red hair burn copper in the ashen light. They stood together, half-illuminated, half-hidden in the gloom.

"Is it true?" she asked. "You're going away?"

"Yes," he said. "The journey's supposed to be a secret. I'm supposed to leave tonight. In an hour, in fact."

"How long will you be away?"

"I think only two weeks."

She averted her eyes. "Is it…is it someplace dangerous?"

"I don't think so. Dumbledore's made sure I'll be safe."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Okay." She simply nodded, not knowing what more to say. He went on, "Ron and Hermione were the only ones who knew. After a while, I thought…I thought it would only be fair if I came here and said goodbye to you."

"At the last minute?" she asked, looking up at him.

He felt shame burning in his cheeks. He'd never considered she'd see it that way.

"I wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do," he said. "Dumbledore wanted me to keep it secret."

"So why didn't you?"

He looked at her in disbelief. "What?"

"Why didn't you keep it a secret? Why didn't you just go?"

He suddenly—surprisingly—found himself defensive. "You wanted me to keep it secret? You didn't want me to tell you? Is that it?"

"What if it is?"

"Oh, that's nice—I guess I wasted my time by coming here!"

Her eyes flashed. "I guess you did! Considering how you've behaved over the past few months this _would_ be a waste of time for you!"

He bit down on harsher words. "I may be late but at least I didn't leave. At least I'm _here_."

She stepped forward, fists clenched. "And I want to know _why_ you're here, Harry! After all this time! For half a year you made me feel like I'd fallen off the face of the earth, and now you're suddenly here talking to me! Why do you want to tell me all this? Don't you think I should know that?"

He said the only thing that came to his head.

"Because…because I thought you deserved to know!"

An odd expression crossed her face, and she turned her gaze away. When she spoke again, it was in a strangled voice.

"You're not going to tell me anything more, are you."

He suddenly felt dirty, like he had played a trick on her. He wanted tell her something, to apologize, but she spoke first.

"Why are you going away?" she said, her voice still unsteady. "Are you allowed to talk about it?"

"…No. Dumbledore made me promise. I can't even tell Ron and Hermione."

"But you'll be back after two weeks."

"Yes," he said, then added, "I promise."

She looked at him. "You promised things before, you know."

"Yeah," he said, with sincere regret, "I know. I…"

She shook her head, saying, "Don't say it, if you don't mean it."

He gazed at her steadily. Then he said, "I'm sorry, Ginny."

Her mouth was silent but her eyes were not. Were there tears in them, or was it just the moonlight? He didn't know. He only knew that he had to keep talking.

He said, "Ginny, there's something else."

And he told her all about the homunculus. It took all of ten minutes, and as he spoke, Ginny's eyes kept widening in shock. When he was done, she sucked in her breath and let out a long sigh.

"This is a bit much," she said, shakily.

"Tell me about it," he replied. "When Dumbledore told me what had to be done, I nearly fell off my chair."

She turned her head to look out the window. "I didn't think it would be this bad," she said. "I didn't think that things would change so much or so fast, that we'd have to worry about such things. All we had before were grades and friends and who's going out with whom…" She turned, walked to a chair, and sank down. Her eyes were large and shiny with fear. "What's happening, Harry? I don't understand. It…it didn't used to be like this."

Harry sat down on an adjacent chair. "I know, Ginny. I think there's going to be a war. Dumbledore thinks so too. Things will be harder for us from now on."

She shook her head as if to deny it, as if she could make it go away.

"But if I succeed," Harry went on, "if I make this journey worth it, maybe this nightmare won't last."

He half-regretted those words; he was already bending his promise. She turned to look into his eyes. "You're going to face Him again, aren't you?"

He could not reply, realizing that part of the reason he could keep going was that he had tried very hard not to think of the moment he'd have to fight Voldemort once more. This journey was a trifle compared to that.

But if he was going to die, he might as well come clean, and say the things he wanted to say. Or at least…say the ones that wouldn't do any damage.

He looked down at the carpeted floor. "Ginny?"

"Yes?" she whispered.

"I'm sorry about…" He fought for words. His mind trembled at the edge of memory, but he pushed the distracting thoughts away.

"I'm sorry about that time in February."

From the corner of his eye he saw her look down as well.

"Okay." Her voice was low, quiet.

"I was angry and stupid," he went on. "I wasn't myself. I didn't mean those things I said."

She nodded, still not looking at him. He turned his head to watch her in the dim light. Her cheeks had reddened, but she was shivering as if cold.

"Do you forgive me?" he asked.

"Yes, Harry. It's okay."

Again he wanted to touch her, to make her stop feeling cold or sad or unsure. He reached for her hand, for the soft warmth he remembered from that time by the lake. If he held her hand, maybe that day would come back. Maybe everything would be all right.

She spoke abruptly. "You'd better go. It's dangerous for you to stay here any longer." She stood up.

His hand dropped to his side once more. Something sank inside of him.

He slowly got to his feet and stood beside her. Without a word he allowed her to lead him to the portrait door. There, she faced him once more.

"I don't know what's going to happen, and I barely know what's going on. But I do know we'll all be waiting for you to come back. Ron, Hermione, and me."

"Thank you."

"Thank you, too. For stopping by."

"…Yeah. Okay."

"And you'll only take two weeks, right?"

"Right."

She smiled a little and said, with measured cheerfulness, "Well, take care, Mr. Potter."

He returned her smile as best he could. "I will. You too, Ms. Weasley."

He pushed the portrait door open and slipped outside. It shut softly behind him.

He stood there for long moments, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. Coming here had been a relief, yes, but he also felt the cold comfort of their goodbye squarely in his guts.

I shouldn't be feeling this way, he told himself, as he put on his cloak. He found himself fumbling with the clasp; his fingers were turning numb from his dried sweat and the cold air. _I shouldn't be feeling like this. I did what I came here to do._

The feeling would not leave, promising sleepless nights ahead. Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak tightly around his shoulders, vanishing from sight.

"I did what I came here to do," the air whispered hoarsely.

Then there was only silence.

* * *

Ginny remained where she was, watching the square of light lying on the Common Room floor. Was it just moments before that Harry was standing there? It seemed surreal. It seemed like it happened years ago, or that it happened with someone else and she was merely watching from across the room.

She kept on staring, picturing him there and straining to remember his voice, and how the moonlight glimmered in his green eyes. She tried to call back his words—and it hurt to do so. She had not felt it hurt in so long. And she had thought he'd never be able to hurt her again

Hermione stepped into the box, breaking moonlight and silence. "Is he gone? I, I wanted to say goodbye too."

Ginny looked into her friend's eyes, at the sorrow mirrored there.

"Yes, he's gone."

To her surprise, the last word came in a sob. Her hands flew to her mouth—she could hardly believe she was crying, but she was. Tears were running freely down her cheeks and onto her fingers. Her vision was blurring, her breath hitching in her lungs.

Hermione quickly closed the distance between them and put her arms around her. Ginny sank gratefully into her embrace, burying her face in her friend's shoulder.

"It's okay, Ginny," whispered Hermione. "It's going to be okay. He'll be back, I know he will."

Ginny was not listening. She could only hear her sobs, and the wild thudding of her heart, brimming with confusion and longing and fear.

_To be continued_

_Sanction_


	5. The Summit

**The Phoenix and the Serpent**

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**_Chapter V : The Summit_**

_Albus Dumbledore created the Order of the Phoenix for the sole purpose of defending the United Kingdom from the armies of the Dark Lord. At first a civilian movement that had its roots in the Druidic scholars, it later evolved into a militia as the prospect of armed struggle became inevitable._

_— From the Journals of Remus Lupin_

_There were only forty of us in the beginning, and this was counting fresh recruits. But in the space of one year, our ranks swelled to many times this number as groups from all over Britain responded to Dumbledore's call. At the height of the Order's power, we had a combined strength of 800 men._

_— From the Journals of Sirius Black_

Several miles north of London, there lay a mountain which for many years had remained nameless, unscaled, unmapped. There was nothing physically remarkable about that mountain—it was as tall as its neighbors and was covered by an equally dense forest. Yet every Muggle cartographer or hiker who had ever attempted to climb it suddenly realized he had left the faucet running in his kitchen, or had left his car parked in front of a fire hydrant. There were, of course, those headstrong individuals who persisted in climbing anyway. They did not get very far before being struck by near-crippling diarrhea, forcing them back to civilization for the nearest drug store and loo.

The mountain slope was steep in places and near horizontal in others. Near the summit, where the slope flattened out before rising sharply again, there stood a quiet grove of ancient oak trees, branches twined like linked arms. At the center of this grove, concealed from prying eyes, was a round patch of solid gray rock.

This grove was the one area on the mountain where a wizard could Apparate without fail, a fact known to only a few. Those privileged to be"in the know" could travel here without fear of getting splinched—that is, to get caught midway between places. And if they stood upon the stone and said the correct password, it would gently sink into the ground, carrying its passengers into a hidden compound within the mountain. This place was simply called "The Summit," formerly a secret library for ancient Druids, now the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.

Down a narrow corridor from the entrance, one would find a series of rooms, their stone walls and floors yellowed with age. Despite being located within a mountain, these rooms were airy and well-lit by sunlight reflected from precisely angled mirrors hung from ceiling corners. Pots of exotic plants, colorful rugs and many relics from an older time also decorated every chamber.

To the left and right of the compound lay two large rooms lined with many feather beds and personal cabinets. At the opposite end from the entrance was an even larger room, filled with mats and human-shaped wooden dummies. Many of these dummies had scorch marks on them; not a few were missing limbs.

At the center of this network of rooms lay a large circular chamber. Stout marble pillars supported its domed ceiling while thousands of books lined its walls. The windows magically showed the land surrounding the mountain from eight separate directions. Sunlight entered through an opening at the top, lighting the wide circular table at the chamber's center.

This room had one occupant at the moment: a lean man whose sandy-brown hair was streaked with iron gray, and whose faded green robes had been mended many times. His thin face frowned in concentration, but he hummed as he directed a large banner with his wand.

"Two inches to the left," he muttered. "Hmm, perhaps three."

Moments later he lowered his wand and stepped back to survey his handiwork. The banner lay perfectly suspended against the wall. The words, in black ink and in his own magnified handwriting, read:

_"The people are the castle_

_The people are the walls_

_Sympathy is your ally_

_Enmity is your foe"_

The young man nodded, smiling wearily, and put his wand away. He had just sunk into the nearest chair when a voice boomed from the hall. "Remus! Remus, where the blazes are you?"

"In here," he called.

The double doors were shoved open as another man, this one with long dark hair and gaunt features, strode into the chamber.

"Why aren't you in bed?" he demanded. "The full moon was just last night! You know you haven't fully recovered!"

"I'm fine, Sirius," Remus replied. "I didn't feel comfortable lying around all day, so I decided get some work done before the meeting this afternoon. Have a look." He motioned to the banner. "What do you think? Fits the Order, doesn't it?"

Sirius ignored the banner completely. "You think you're fine? I was in better shape after swimming the North Sea. What's wrong with you, working in that condition—"

"Padfoot, I was hanging a banner, not laying bricks."

"—and if you think for one moment you'll be joining the meeting in the state you're in—"

"I said I feel fine," Remus replied. "If there's anyone here who needs a break, it's you. You're run ragged. But most likely not as badly as the men you've been training."

This time, Sirius collapsed into a chair. "They're not ready," he groaned. "I'm way behind schedule. Damn it, we only got as far as Full Body-Bind Curses today! We're supposed to be at Wand Shielding!"

"That's because you only got this batch of recruits last week—of course you'll be behind. Besides which, you're tiring them out and putting even more pressure on yourself. It's not conducive to learning. Now, won't you relax?"

Sirius laughed harshly. "How in the world am I supposed to relax when Voldemort's got an army bigger than ours? This isn't going to be some schoolground scuffle, Moony."

"Well, Dumbledore once said there's more to an army than sheer numbers."

"Yes, yes, there's having money, weapons and well-trained troops. If we're settling for one out of three, that means Wand Shielding!" Sirius took out his wand and conjured a goblet of water, which he quickly downed. "If only Mad-Eye were here," he said, putting down the empty goblet. "He'd be able to train them twice as fast."

Remus smiled, a little guiltily. Sirius had a definite liking for the old man, because Moody was one of those who'd known all along, despite the evidence, that Sirius was not guilty of any crime. Mad-Eye simply knew guilt when he saw it.

"If he were here," Remus said, "he'd commend you for doing a great job training these men. You're as good as everyone else, perhaps better. And he knows it."

Sirius snorted as he put down his goblet. "'A convict would be more of a hindrance to the Order than a help.'"

"You weren't. Never mind what Galino said. You'd be foolish to keep thinking that way. Moody had said it was your own character that made the recruits stop feeling afraid of you. Now, not one of them believes you're a criminal. Unless of course," he added with a smile, "you actually kill one of them out of exhaustion. Take your mind off of work for now and do something else." Then he had an idea. "Have you written to Harry recently?"

Sirius's expression softened at the thought. "I haven't. It's been, what, a month?"

"Don't you think it's time he heard from his errant godfather?"

Sirius snorted again, but the faraway look never left his eyes. Remus wanted to laugh. That certainly did the trick.

"Take my advice," he added, "write him. And you can rest while you're at it."

"Oh, fine." Sirius Summoned a quill, an ink bottle and parchment from a nearby cupboard.

"I meant in the comfort of your own room, Padfoot."

Sirius spread the parchment and readied his quill. "No time. I'd better get this done now if I want to continue lessons by sundown."

Remus sighed. "Do you consider exasperating me part of your job?"

"No, but it's in my resume under Skills.'"

Laughter came from the entrance, followed by a slight ringing sound. Both men turned to see a golden-haired young man approaching them in slow, measured strides. In his right hand he held out his wand, a rod made of fine, durable crystal. In his left hand he carried some rolls of parchment.

"Lyle!" said Remus. "Help me convince this idiot to get some rest."

"Get yourself to bed, Mr. Black—that's an order," Lyle said, still smiling.

They had known Lyle since Hogwarts; he had been their upperclassman in Gryffindor, although they had rarely ever spoken to him. After graduating, Lyle had worked for the Ministry as an Auror. They met again when Lyle accepted Dumbledore's invitation to join the Order .

Sirius cracked a smile as he scribbled _Dear Harry—._ "You sound less like my officer and more like my mother. What's all that paperwork for?"

Lyle pocketed his wand, set the parchments onto the table and wiped his brow. "My reports on the Order's status. Dumbledore asked me to get an update on our overall condition. 'Know thy enemy, know thyself,' that sort of thing. And I trust you are both well? Remus, should you really be out of bed?"

"Why does everyone think I'm going to fall apart today?" wondered Remus. "I'm quite fine and capable of working, thank you. The proof is on the wall to your left."

Lyle lightly tapped his chest and murmured, "Aria?"

From his vest pocket emerged a three-inch tall elfin girl, who zipped into the air on a pair of golden dragonfly wings. Her sanguine eyes gazed at Remus's banner for a moment, then flew to Lyle's ear and whispered to him.

"Not bad," he said. "Now would you mind terribly if we move that aside when I make my report? I'll be projecting it on that particular wall."

"Your admiration of my work humbles me, sir."

"Anything for the Great Lupin." Lyle gave him a mock bow.

Remus leaned over and glared at Sirius, who was chuckling. "_You're _supposed to be writing your letter."

"I would be if both of you'd let me get past 'Dear Harry.'"

"You're both an hour early for the meeting, you know," Lyle said as he arranged his material. "Perhaps you _should_ rest a bit." The little sprite leaped onto table and helped roll out the parchments.

"Don't waste your time, Lyle," replied Remus. "You might as well ask Sirius to roll over and play dead."

Sirius shrugged. "The way things are I don't see how anyone can take it easy. Least of all Dumbledore. He's been here since before dawn, overseeing things non-stop. I shouldn't do any less, as I see it." He stopped writing and looked up, suddenly excited. "Lyle! What happened with your negotiations with the centaurs? Have they said yes or no or what?"

"Definitely 'or what'. It's been the same story for the past two months--they just consult their constellation charts, shake their heads and mutter among themselves. I could have done with a few mind-reading spells." He paused, then continued, "They did say they will be giving their decision in the meeting later. A delegation is supposed to arrive."

Sirius shook his head and started writing again. "You'd think centaurs would've learned to trust someone from the Order by now, especially an Auror."

Lyle's hands briefly stopped straightening his parchments. "Ex-Auror, Sirius," he said quietly.

Sirius looked up, abashed. "I'm sorry, Lyle...I didn't mean to—"

But the other man waved him off, smiling. "Any new developments on your end? Some last minute something I can add to my report?"

Sirius paused for a minute, watching him, but his serene face betrayed nothing. "No," he finally said. "We're not even into Wand Shielding yet, I'm afraid."

Remus said, "It's the stress, I tell you. Take the night off. Let me train the recruits."

"Forget it," the Sirius retorted. "As with our previous discussion, I'm in more shape to do it than you are."

"No doubt, and you'll be in no shape for anything at all by tomorrow."

"Seeing neither of you are up to the task," Lyle interrupted, chuckling, "I hereby order you both to take a leave for the night. Let me take care of the trainees."

"I can't ask you to do that!" said Sirius.

"You aren't; I'm offering. Tell you what, I'll make you a deal. Let me train the recruits tonight. Tomorrow, one of you takes my place at the Security Review. There, what do you think?"

Remus said, "But won't they be needing you there?"

"Nonsense. All procedure, I assure you. No wonder Mad-Eye was bored out of his mind."

"Why do I get the feeling you don't particularly like your promotion?"

"Because I didn't start out in the Order wanting a desk job. So, what do you think, Sirius?"

Sirius seemed about to decline, but then he looked thoughtfully at his letter. "Well...I supposeif you say you can do it"

Remus stared at him. "And the Minotaur is tamed," he said.

"Excellent," said Lyle, smiling. He felt around for a chair, and eased himself into it. "I wonder, Remus," he said, "where _did _you get the quote for the banner? It sounded familiar."

"I'm not sure," Remus replied. "It's something I remember from Muggle Studies back at Hogwarts. I only recall the words, though, not who said them—"

"Takeda Shingen," someone intoned from the doorway. "A Muggle warlord from Japan's Warring States Period."

Sirius and Remus turned as Melvincent Galino entered the chamber. A dignified 40-year old man with graying hair and face too old for his age, Galino was once a member of the elite Hit Wizards from the Law Enforcement branch of the Ministry. He left his job shortly after Voldemort's first reign, and later became one of the Order's senior members.

"Hello, Melvincent," Lyle said, facing him. "Bit early, aren't we?" Remus nodded his greeting. Sirius, however, merely winced and slid the unfinished letter into his pocket.

"I've just finished reviewing the regular troops today," replied Galino, as if he were already making a report. "I decided to head here directly after a brief repast." He turned his attention back to the banner. "It's quite apt," he went on, "but I'm afraid he's misquoted."

"Oh?" said Remus.

"Yes. I believe it should be, 'Sympathy _for _your allies, enmity _for_ your foe.'"

"I think it's fine as it is," Sirius said drily.

Galino ignored him. "Is Dumbledore about?" he asked Lyle. "I wish to speak with him awhile before the meeting begins."

"I don't know where he is now, sorry," responded Lyle.

"I do," Sirius said. "I saw him heading outside, possibly to check on the mountain's outer Security Charms. Why don't go look for him there?"

Galino turned to stare at him. "In that case, I'd rather wait for him here, if you don't mind."

"Not at all," Sirius muttered.

"Er, why don't you take a seat, Melvincent?" Lyle said, gesturing to the table. "We've a bit of a wait before the meeting begins."

Galino moved towards the table but did not sit down."Tell me, how goes the training of our new recruits, Mr. Black?"

"Not bad, _Mr_. Galino," Sirius replied. "We're to continue with Wand Shielding tonight."

"Good. Very good. I'd like to stop by and check their progress, perhaps give some pointers."

Remus saw the muscles in Sirius's face clenching. _Control yourself_, he mouthed to him. Lyle coughed and said, "I believe Sirius will be taking—"

"—Care of the recruits tonight, not to worry," Sirius said. "No need to bother checking in."

"If you say so," said Galino, and moved to sit at the other side of the table.

Remus decided to fill in the silence that followed. "So, Lyle," he said, "who else is coming to the meeting?"

"You haven't heard since you've been out awhile," Lyle replied as he finished his preparations, "but it's going to be a big one. Everybody's coming."

"What do you mean everybody?" Remus asked.

"_Everybody_."

* * *

Two o'clock came and the chamber began to fill with people, most of whom were familiar to both Sirius and Remus. Dumbledore had referred to them before as "the old crowd."

Seated across from them was Arabella Figg. An elderly, benign-looking woman, Arabella was one of the sharpest minds in the Order. Dumbledore had relied on her in the past to gather intelligence on the Dark Order's movements. She had patented the strategy of using trained Kneazles, highly intelligent cat-like creatures, to infiltrate Death Eater territory using spying devices disguised as collars. Many strategies began and ended with the information she provided. She had retired years ago, but it was common knowledge that she had been watching over Harry as he stayed in Privet Drive.

At the moment she was telling Molly and Arthur Weasley stories about little Harry. The Weasleys were some of the Order's newest supporters, which was a twist of good fortune. Arthur was Dumbledore's man in the Ministry of Magic and they relied on him for news from that front. They chatted and laughed with Arabella, as if they were attending a social event rather than a meeting.

Actually, Remus reflected, it did seem like a social event. Most of the people milling about were old friends, and Dumbledore had arranged for a variety of snacks and exotic tea for everyone present.

To their left, Mundungus Fletcher was already helping himself to the food. A thin, raspy old man with long grey whiskers and sideburns, Mundungus was a brilliant inventor and an expert on magical research, facts which hopefully balanced the fact that he was the most socially inept person Remus had ever met.

"I heard he came only because there were refreshments involved," he muttered to Sirius.

"You know Mundungus," replied Sirius, "why stop at refreshments? A minute ago he was asking me where the buffet table was." He glanced to his right and said, "Tell me something. Who's that woman over there? The one with the monstrous hat beside her?"

Remus gazed at the formidable-looking lady who was helping herself to a crumpet, and said, "That's Mrs. Longbottom. She's the grandmother of one of my former students in Hogwarts." His voiced dropped lower as he said, "I heard that she once took on ten of Grindelwald's wizards by herself and won."

Sirius gave a low whistle. "Let's hope she knows I'm with the good guys."

There were also some unfamiliar faces in the chamber. Sirius was surprised to find not one but two representatives from the centaurs, a male and a female. They were drinking goblets of sweet wine while listening to Lyle, who was telling them about the Order.

Not far from the centaurs sat Marius Haggerty. A plump, noble-looking man with a monocled right eye, Haggerty was one of the few in the Order who had actually taken active part in two wars—first against Grindelwald, and later against Voldemort. Sirius had often heard him say he had no stomach at his age to be part of a third one. He joined the Order willingly though, and apart from Dumbledore proved to be its finest strategist.

Beside Haggerty, Galino was talking in hushed tones with Amos Diggory. Sirius had long noted that Amos had been keeping company with Galino since he joined the Order. He didn't like it one bit.

"I never thought Diggory would end up chums with a war-monger like Galino," he grumbled to Remus.

Privately, Remus didn't like it either. But to lighten Sirius's mood he said, "You know what? I don't think you're ever happy anywhere unless there's one person you can truly dislike."

"What in the world are you talking about?" Sirius asked, frowning.

"Think about it. At Hogwarts it was Severus Snape. After you graduated and found a job, it was that Hollyhock fellow. Now that you're in the Order, it's Galino. Don't you think it's true?"

"Do you get paid by the hour, Moony?"

Suddenly, a chorus of greetings erupted from the crowd. Dumbledore had finally arrived.

He made his way to the area in front of Remus's banner, occasionally stopping to shake hands. He wore deep blue robes with glittering stars and a wizard hat that leaned so far back it looked more like a night cap. While his face bore faint signs of fatigue, his voice did not.

After giving his welcoming remarks, he said, "While I would like to begin the meeting with a song to put us in a cheery mood, I believe we have pressing business to attend to. First, an important announcement that simply cannot wait. May I introduce the representatives of the Centaur Communes, herald Firenze, and his wife, tribe shaman Moonglow. Please come forward, friends."

The centaurs approached Dumbledore amidst applause from the Order. They shook hands with the Headmaster, then Firenze turned to address the entire room.

"Fellows, we come to you with goodwill and peace in our hearts. We have traveled here from the forests of Hogwarts, where our Council of Elders had recently concluded a general assembly of tribes. I am proud to bear happy news from this convention."

Sirius and Remus glanced at each other. Sirius's eyes shone with excitement. Firenze good news could only be one thing.

"By popular vote, the leaders of the Centaur Communes of Britain have agreed to ally with the Order of the Phoenix in their struggle against the forces of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named..."

Firenze tried to say more, but the hurricane of applause drowned out the rest of his announcement. Everyone in the room was shouting and clapping and stamping their feet. Several wizards stood up to shake hands with the centaurs. Firenze and Moonglow seemed unused to this riotous show of camaraderie, but they smiled all the same as they shook hands.

Sirius had leaped to his feet, hands in the air. To Remus, he seemed in terrible danger of dancing for joy.

"What does it look like, Moony?" Sirius exclaimed, "How many trained fighters have we added to our side? All the Centaur Communes! And they're what, six hundred strong?"

"Don't include the women and children, Padfoot," laughed Remus.

"Fine, fine, let 's say around two-hundred fifty. Enough to give the Dark Lord a run for his money, no doubt!"

Remus turned to Lyle, who literally had his hands full as the crowd gathered to congratulate him.

"Lyle, you did it!" Remus said, grasping his hand. "And here you were saying you couldn't handle a desk job!"

Lyle's smile was strained. "Thanks," he said. "I'm sure it wasn't just me that convinced them, though."

"Shut it, you," laughed Sirius, slapping his back. "You'll be having drinks with us later. _That's _an order."

Dumbledore, meanwhile, was attempting to get order back to his Order.

"Settle down, everyone, settle down. Firenze, Moonglow, the rest have said this far more eloquently than I, but please accept the gratitude and goodwill of the Order of the Phoenix. The centaurs are worthy allies and steadfast friends; we shall not soon forget it. Now," he said, turning to the rest, "please make yourselves comfortable. We have several other things we need to discuss before the day is done."

He waited for everyone to take their seats before moving on.

"The first half our meeting will consist of reports on the general condition of the Order and other matters of import. This is so everyone is on level ground with our situation. All of you may ask questions of those presenting their reports, but I must ask you to leave your opinions and suggestions for the second half of the meeting. There we shall discuss concerns that have arisen over the past year, and decide what actions to undertake.

"May I now request Lyle Bishop to give his overview on the Order 's status. Meanwhile, Molly, will you take down the minutes of the meeting? Thank you."

Lyle snapped alert as a round of applause went up. He leaned over to Remus. "You won 't mind if I use your banner for a bit, will you?"

"Not at all. Good luck."

He stood up and gathered his materials. His right hand took out his crystal wand and held it at waist level. On the index and middle fingers of his left hand he wore two hollow rings of tempered steel. When he brushed these fingers rapidly together, the rings produced a faint ringing sound which bounced throughout the room. The crystal wand caught the returning vibrations and magically provided him a mental sketch of his surroundings.

Lyle then walked unerringly to the front of the room, and Dumbledore made way for him. Lyle set down his parchments and little Aria flew out again and started arranging them. Meanwhile, Lyle pointed his wand at Remus 's banner and muttered a few words. It quickly Transfigured, unfurling into a large screen with the quote shrunk down to a small header at the top. Another wave of his wand and a parchment stood stiffly upright, flashing a brilliant light on the screen. Remus 's banner lit up with the contents of Lyle 's report.

Lyle 's report alone lasted for nearly an hour, and by the end of it Mundungus was snoring loudly in his seat. When Sirius turned his bleary eyes up to the banner, it was filled with the complete summary:

_Order 's numerical strength : 440 + 230 (Centaur Communes)_

_Part-time support personnel : 100_

_Death Eater numerical strength : 580 ??? (as of May this year)_

_Funding for the Order : 23,000 Galleons, approx. 500 a month_

Lyle added, "Even with our number, the area we have to cover to maintain a solid defense is still overwhelming. Fortunately we have devised a means of rapid transportation. Bernard Frost and his team have created well over 300 Portkeys over the past two months, all connected to our forward base in Birmingham. Once we receive news of a Death Eater attack, we shall move forces from Birmingham to the nearest Portkey exit. It sounds primitive, but unlike Floo travel there's no way the Ministry can track this system. The Portkeys are ready. All that remains is to decide where to install them."

The members nodded amongst themselves as Lyle returned to his seat and Galino took his turn. His report comprised of the training of the Order 's recruits, as well as reviews of their responses to recent Death Eater activity. His report was far shorter than Lyle 's, but at the conclusion he added:

"While we have been expeditious in our responses to Voldemort 's forays, our methods are far too reactionary. Wherever there is Death Eater movement, such as Muggle kidnappings, our practice is to send our people in to secure the area. Yet the perpetrators slink back into the shadows, only to reappear elsewhere to do more damage. Our attempts to track them down have not produced great results."

"Where in hell does he get off saying these things?" Sirius fumed to Remus. "We 're supposed to be saving our opinions for later!"

Galino went on. "The attack on Thistleberry a few days ago further drives home the point: the Order must take direct and immediate action. We have the numbers, we have the means. We know that Voldemort is based somewhere in the south, and that he will most likely move in from the sea. We are aware of areas that will eventually turn into Death Eater forward bases--if they aren 't already. The time is now. We must secure these red zone areas and from there hunt down Voldemort 's forces as soon as possible."

"A point of order," said Lyle, getting up. "Firstly, what we know as probable sites for Death Eater bases are simply that—'probable '. That those places are under Dark Order control is still speculation, and will remain so until our agents come up with solid evidence. Secondly, as of now, the Order has more reasons to defend than to attack. There are far too many undefended towns and villages in the south to ignore."

"That 's it Lyle," murmured Sirius. "Give it to him straight!"

"We don't have enough manpower to cover all those areas if we remain defensive," replied Galino. "Should we even try, our forces will be too spread out and easily overcome. I say we strike first, en masse, before Voldemort does. If we can cut him down before he gets more than a foothold in Britain then we can save more lives. Victory lies in the attack, not the defense."

There were several murmurs of both agreement and dissent. Sirius, however, bolted out of his chair and said, "We don't even know exactly what the composition of Voldemort's army is! He may or may not have the giants on his side! He may or may not have found a way to get to the Dementors! The only certainty we have is that what we _do_ know isn't complete—you can't expect us to fight under those conditions! The consequences could be disastrous!"

Galino regarded him as if he were a petulant child. "The giants have a simple ideology: side with those who are winning. As for the Dementors, we know from our sources that Voldemort has to get past the Ministry's barriers before he can enlist them, and in the past year he hasn't made a single move to do so. No, neither giants nor Dementors are the danger—hesitation is. Won't hesitating invite an even greater disaster? Who shall take responsibility for it?"

Sirius's dark eyes blazed, but Remus spoke up before he could. "Professor Dumbledore," he said, "what do you make of the situation?"

The whole time, the headmaster had his head bowed in deep in thought. He raised his eyes and looked from man to man. He said, "All of you have your opinions and I find each one as valid as the other. I am quite certain, however, that all our views will benefit from more information, which we can attain if we allow the rest of the speakers to proceed in an orderly fashion. For now, why don't we listen before we speak? Does everyone agree?"

Remus felt his chest loosen as everyone nodded in assent. He yanked Sirius's sleeve and the other man sat down, though still glowering. Galino allowed Arabella to take the floor and returned to his place without another word. He had, after all, made his point.

Another hour passed as reports followed in quick succession.

"There is still one factor we have not accounted for," Arabella said, "and that 's the Ministry of Magic. As of today, the Ministry is still searching for evidence that the Order is not mere hearsay, and we have been successful in eluding their investigation. This will change, though, the more we take action against the Dark Order. Inevitably we will be found out, and soon."

Marius Haggerty went next. He conjured up a huge map of the United Kingdom onto the table and pointed out several areas he believed were in danger of being attacked first. He also noted choke points, places that were too risky to defend, and towns that they absolutely had to control. These appeared as many multi-colored dots on the illusionary map.

"What of Onyx Isle, Marius?" Remus asked. "Do we have any idea yet on its location?"

"'Onyx Isle, if that is its name," said Haggerty, "is still an enigma to us. The information we have heard is it's 'in the southern seas.' We have no solid proof that it _is_ Voldemort's headquarters."

Finally the last report finished, and Dumbledore called for short break. Lyle walked over to Mundungus and shook him awake.

Ignoring the tea and crumpets that sprang up from the table, Sirius stood up and stretched his legs. "Well, Moony, what do you make of it all?"

Remus leaned back into his chair, putting his hands behind his head. "Well, I think even if we have the centaurs on our side, Voldemort still has the element of surprise. Haggerty didn't spell it out but his observation is correct: for now, with our limited information, all we can do is to defend key towns and meet his forces there."

"I don't know," Sirius said. "I've a bad feeling Voldemort's up to something—why else would he wait a year before making a move?"

"He didn't wait a year," said Remus.

At Sirius 's questioning look, he elaborated, "As early as September last year we have been receiving reports of missing Muggles from all over Britain. Counting it all together, the number of these incidents is roughly equal to that we had fifteen or sixteen years before. Yet unlike those past incidents, the bodies of the current victims were never discovered."

Sirius shrugged and said, "Perhaps they were abductions, not murders."

"I had assumed that myself. Let's think in that direction for a moment. I had noticed something common about the cases. All the victims were male, within the age range of 20 to 35, young, healthy, and with above-average physique."

Sirius's eyes narrowed. "This has to do with that dream Harry had last year, doesn't it? That hiker who vanished."

"Yes. Dumbledore's had me looking into this issue for the past few months. I've talked it over with Arabella and Mundungus, but we can't seem to fit all of the pieces together."

"Have you figured out why Voldemort's being selective about the Muggles he attacks?"

"All we have are speculations, but think for a moment: If you wanted to wage a war, why would you round up as many able-bodied men as possible?"

"If you wanted to press them into becoming slaves," Sirius grimly concluded, "or soldiers."

Their discussion was cut short when Dumbledore reconvened the meeting. This time around, things were far livelier as everyone pitched in his or her own opinions. For a while, everyone was talking about different things. Finally, Arabella's topic became the dominant issue.

"We can expect the Ministry to be uncooperative at best, hostile at worst," she said. "As the Minister himself does not believe the Dark Lord has returned, it is to be expected that his officers will be similarly skeptical. It is possible, however, to convince more Aurors to side with us in the ensuing fight. They are experienced in the ways of Dark Wizards and should be able to read the times far better than the heads of the Ministry."

"Although not that many," Lyle interjected. "There are Aurors who stand solidly behind the Fudge administration and will strive to maintain status quo."

"But there won't even be a status quo anymore if things keep on as they are!" cried young Aliora Syrrh. "Can 't they see it? Missing Muggles! The Dark Mark during the World Quidditch Cup! Former Death Eaters going underground! And they still don't believe he 's back?"

"People believe what they want to," Galino said. "These peaceful times have softened their heads. Besides which, you have to contend with the prevailing inertia— 'Muggles don't matter '. Because they outnumber the wizarding population 800 to 1 here in England, so what if a number of them go missing? It does not directly affect them."

"That 's inhuman," Aliora said angrily.

"Nonetheless, that is how a number of wizards think. Not everyone, but a considerable number. That's what we have to contend with."

"So, what do we do?"

A short silence ensued, broken by the voice everyone had been waiting to hear.

"It is clear," said Dumbledore, "that there are four issues requiring immediate attention."

He got up from his chair, gazing into the faces of the gathered Order. As he watched the old man before them, Remus marveled at the faith people had in him. It was a testament to this faith that when Dumbledore called on them to face Voldemort once more, they questioned neither his news nor his sanity. They simply came.

Dumbledore said, "First, there is every indication that Voldemort 's army is about to stage a large-scale attack. We must finish setting up our defenses as quickly and soundly as possible in the areas previously discussed. Marius has done an excellent job in pointing them out to us, and Lyle and Bernard have come up with a means to move into them when needed. We must use these to our advantage. Our company leaders will take their positions, secure the Front, and await the Dark Army's arrival."

Sirius and Remus nodded in unison. Being leaders of Company A, they knew they would find themselves in the thick of things soon enough.

"Second, we must be aware of what surprises Voldemort may have in store for us. Our intelligence over the past year has been effective, yet there are still many questions that need answering. What is Voldemort planning to do with the Muggles he has abducted? What other allies does he have here and abroad? What other strategies will he employ in his attacks? We must put our efforts to finding out more. Arabella, please see to these as soon as possible."

Arabella was already scribbling notes onto her parchment as he spoke.

"Meanwhile, Mundungus, are your Golems ready for any unorthodox threat we may face?"

Mundungus steepled his fingers and smirked. "Readier than a red-cheeked maiden, if you get me meanin'." Remus rolled his eyes.

"Third," Dumbledore went on, "while our numbers have increased with new members and our alliance with the Centaurs, we must not remain complacent. We cannot win this war without public support. While I have sent Hagrid and Madam Maxime to convince the giants to at least stay neutral, this seems no longer viable. Thus, we must continue our efforts into making as many people as we can aware of the Dark Lord 's return. Aliora, we 'll need your connections to sway more people, Muggles or wizards, to our cause. Keep it low-key, of course, as this will put us in direct opposition with the Ministry. Still, if worse comes to worst and we cannot hide our existence from them, Bernard and his men will give them a jolly good time trying to find us."

Aliora and Bernard nodded grimly as they took notes themselves.

"And fourth...the fourth issue is something I have been considering for many months now. Indeed, I may have been considering it since the Order's inception."

He paused, a look of utter seriousness in his eyes. Immediately, everyone stopped writing and looked up.

He said, "I have decided to pass on leadership of the Order of the Phoenix to another member of this gathering."

The quill dropped from Molly's hand, leaving a large inkblot on her parchment. Sirius 's eyes grew to the size of saucers. Remus felt his mouth go dry. At that moment, even the most ardent and outspoken members of the Order sat stunned in their seats, leaving it to a bewildered Mundungus ask, "Eh, this a joke?"

Dumbledore smiled, but the gravity never left his eyes. "No, I am afraid not, Mundungus."

"I...I must have misheard you, Professor," said Aliora, "I can't believe I heard you say you 're quitting your duties to the Order."

"It seems you _did_ mishear me, my dear," said the Headmaster. "I did not say I was quitting my duties to the Order. I merely said I was relinquishing my leadership of it."

Arabella spoke up next. "Professor...with all due respect...I don't think that changing the leadership of the Order at this stage of preparations is a good idea."

"Quite the contrary, dear Arabella, changing the leadership is the best idea I 've had in a while. Let me tell you why.

"Firstly, you have correctly pointed out that the Ministry will soon become certain of the Order 's existence. Naturally, I will be the first person they will suspect as ring leader. Meaning I shall be investigated, perhaps even detained. If I remain at Hogwarts, by all appearances being a "law-abiding citizen" performing his duties as headmaster of a school, any action they may take against me will not jeopardize the Order."

"They _will _take action against you if they perceive you as the leader, sir, and it _will_ affect the Order one way or another."

"We cannot foretell the future, Arabella, but whatever happens to me, the Order should continue its function beneath a strong and able leader. This is what I am aiming for.

"Listen, my friends. How do you perceive the Order? If you see it as an extension of myself, my way of countering Voldermort, then it is a false vision, doomed to failure were it true. My view of the Order is a group of people of different skills and backgrounds, banding together for a common cause. This is not _my_ fight, it is _ours_. I helped bring all of you together. Now, the Order must operate autonomously from its creator.

"My second reason is far more pragmatic. Simply put, times have changed. The character of this war is different from the first one in both scale and substance. The situation entails that the leaders of both sides adopt an appropriate stance."

Haggerty raised his hand. "Forgive me, sir, but I do not see the difference. You were very much part of the struggle against Voldemort then. You fought alongside everyone else. Why should now be any different?"

"True enough," Dumbledore replied, "I joined the struggle then along with everyone else. But my words are no mere rhetoric.

"We know from our sources that Voldemort is not inclined to directly deal with matters when his army can handle them. He has learned not to be personally involved, a fault which contributed to his previous downfall. Furthermore, the Dark Order is different from what we remember of it. Very different. Arabella tells us that Voldemort has founded a set of unquestionably loyal officers to command a large, disciplined, efficient army. In the face of this, our old tactics will no longer serve us. Our previous "wars" had more in common with duels than actual wars. To counter this new Dark Order, we need to create something similar to it, and more than that. We need to improve. We need to innovate," he smiled, eyes twinkling, "and we need another person be our 'Chief Crazyhorse.'"

Diggory raised his hand, his face full of misgiving. "Yet...forgive me, Professor, but it _is_ true that you're the only wizard whomwhom You-Know-Who fears." He swallowed, suddenly looking ashamed. "If you were not todeal with things directly"

"I will join the fight if necessary, Amos, if that is your worry. We fight where we must, if we must. The same is true for me as it is for all.

"Yet for the most part I will content myself with the position of adviser. What we need is a general. It goes without saying that we need someone experienced in fighting the Dark Order, yet we also need someone well-versed in military affairs. Someone who can adapt faster to changes in a volatile situation. Someone possessing a strong character, willing enough to take up the burdens of the Order and uphold its principles. And, while not vital," he gave a small smile, "someone younger than I would be quite a bonus."

Aliora asked the next inevitable question, "Sir, if I may, who do you have in mind for your replacement?"

"That," Dumbledore said, gesturing to them with open palms, "is not for me to decide, but for all of _you_ to decide.

"We shall put the leadership of the Order to a vote, nominating those we believe worthy of the post—excluding myself, of course. Keep in mind that the one you nominate may become your Commander. While I shall stand as adviser, the Commander will make the final decisions on the Order 's actions. Therefore, it behooves us all to choose with care.

"But I am getting ahead of myself. Naturally, my decision to change the leadership cannot be done without your support. I have presented my thoughts to you, and I hope you found it sensible. Now I must listen to what more you have to say. Tell me, do you accept my proposal?"

Once again, silence fell upon the assembly. The seconds ticked by as each person looked from one to the next, waiting for the scales to tip one way or the other.

That someone turned out to be Bernard Frost. Normally a solemn man who talked rarely and quietly, his tone became strong and certain as he got up to speak.

"If I may address the gathering," he said. "Allow me to share this with you.

"Nearly twenty years ago I was a simple, ordinary citizen, content in my work as a grocer and shoemaker. My wife and I lived a life free of troubles, until the year the Dark Lord descended upon Britain. As you know, I was witness to a murder committed by the Death Eaters, one of whom happened to be a ranking Ministry official. To protect themselves, they tried to kill me. My family and I had to run. There was nothing I could do, no one I could turn to.

"But friends told me to go to Professor Dumbledore for help. He hid us from the Death Eaters until I could expose the masked scoundrel in the Ministry.

"Today I have a good life, my children have families of their own. All this has been because of him. His wisdom and foresight have saved many more lives besides mine. Thus, if he says the wisest choice is to pass on leadership of the Order, I will support him. I know that he has thought this through. I have never before met a man humble enough to say he is not the best choice for a crucial task, and I am proud to be his ally. He knows that those gathered here are wise enough to choose a worthy leader. As he trusts in us, let us trust in him and in ourselves."

He took his seat amidst resounding applause. People nodded to themselves in agreement. Perhaps the change could be done. In fact, maybe Dumbledore was right—perhaps it _should _be done.

Sirius suddenly leaned towards Remus. "Moony?"

"Yes?"

"You will _not_ nominate me. If that thought's crossed your mind, you'd better get rid of it. Or else, full moon or not, I swear I'll drag you outside and thrash the living daylights out of you."

Remus grinned. "Nominate you? What a splendid idea! Thanks for broaching the idea, Padfoot."

Sirius scowled. "Fine. One good turn deserves another. I'll nominate you as well. _Then_ I'll beat you up."

Galino had stood up to address the group. "I agree with Bernard," he said. "I too am proud to be in the service of the Order of the Phoenix. It is the least I can do after all Professor Dumbledore has done for the wizarding world. Therefore, I call on everyone present to choose only the person they deem most worthy of succeeding its former leader. While there is no doubt that no one here can truly equal Professor Dumbledore, I am certain a number of us are worthy enough to lead. May victory go with the Order!"

His words were met with cheers and much private discussion on who to nominate. Sirius, however, merely watched with narrowed eyes as Galino took his seat. Galino 's face betrayed no emotion. He calmly watched as everyone started choosing their candidates.

"If that smug son-of-a-bitch thinks he's going to get elected, he's got another thought coming," Sirius grumbled.

"Well," said Remus, "he's a prime contender. Got some backing, as you well know. He also has the experience Dumbledore was talking about. Even you have to grant him that."

"Who's side are you on, anyway?"

"Not to worry. All we need is another strong candidate to back up. I mean, well, there's always you."

"Not another word, Moony. Not. Another. Word."

His eyes suddenly went wide with epiphany.

"Remus! We can get—"

"I'm way ahead of you, Sirius."

The nominations went quickly and orderly enough. Dumbledore cleared the screen with his wand for the listing, and one by one, the members stood up to proclaim their nominees.

Loric Thistlemoat went first. "I respectfully nominate Marius Haggerty as Commander of the Order of the Phoenix."

Marius looked thoroughly shocked by this, yet he did not rise to object. At least, not directly. He got to his feet and said, "I...I nominate Arabella Figg for the position of Commander."

Arabella looked as if he had just played a ruthless prank on her. But she said nothing.

Amos Diggory followed. "I respectfully nominate Melvincent Galino as our Commander."

"Well," muttered Sirius, "didn't faint in surprise now, did I?"

Remus, however, stood and spoke in a loud clear voice. "I respectfully nominate Lionel Bishop as Commander of the Order."

Many gazes turned to Lyle, whose own sightless gaze turned to Remus. Before, the only expressions Remus had seen on Lyle 's face were either unflappable calm or mild amusement. Now he looked like a man who 'd been handed an arrest warrant. Yet like Marius, he gave no objection.

Two more candidates were named before Mundungus, filled with sudden inspiration, bolted out of his chair and cried, "In the interest of the Order, I nominate myself as Commander!" This was met with peals of much-needed laughter, followed by another round of applause. Mundungus took his time bowing to everyone in the room before sitting down.

He was, as it turned out, the last of the candidates. Dumbledore then conjured up a large fish bowl on the table, after which he created small pieces of paper that floated over the heads of the assembly. Everyone snatched them up.

"Please write your votes on the ballots," Dumbledore said. "Afterwards you may put them in the bowl."

Soon the whole assembly had Banished their ballots into the fishbowl. When the last vote was cast, Dumbledore called on Molly Weasley to read them aloud and both Firenze and Moonglow to audit. Dumbledore himself wrote the results on the banner with his wand.

In the end, the results were as thus:

_Lyle Bishop – 14_

_Melvincent Galino – 8_

_Arabella Figg – 6_

_Marius Haggerty – 4_

_Horace Underwood – 3_

_Roma Robertson – 3_

_Mundungus Fletcher – 1_

Everyone started talking at the same time as the winner became apparent. In the midst of it all, some heard Mundungus mumble, "Well, it was worth a try."

"Very well,' announced Dumbledore. "Lyle Bishop has been elected Commander of the Order of the Phoenix by popular vote of its members. If anyone objects, let them raise their hands and state their case."

He looked around at the gathering. Nobody moved. Lyle looked as if he had been caught in a Full-Body Bind.

"With that," Dumbledore went on, "I call on Lionel Bishop to accept the post of Commander. Lyle, would you please approach?"

All eyes were on Lyle as he stood up, moving as if he were underwater. He groped around the table for his wand. Bernard stood up and took him by the arm. Only when they began walking towards Dumbledore did the applause come—a trickle at first, then more and more, until finally everyone was on their feet clapping for the new Commander. The tally on the screen vanished and was replaced by these words:

_Lionel W. Bishop – 'Chief Crazyhorse'_

The applause died down as Lyle stood before Dumbledore. They shook hands, then he turned, very stiffly, to face the entire Order. His scarred blue eyes stared blankly. He looked very pale and very young.

But his voice was steady when he spoke.

"Fellow members, allies, friends, I am at once honored...and deeply humbled to have been chosen as leader of our Order."

His hand tightened around a wand that wasn't there, then relaxed.

"I have never envisioned things would turn out this waynot in a thousand ages would I have imagined I would stand here before you...trying to sew together my incoherent thoughts to make some semblance of a speech..."

His listeners chuckled. Lyle smiled wryly, then a spark of his old confidence lit up his face.

"However...I know one thing for certain. Though the leadership changes, the Order of the Phoenix remains the same. We will fulfill the same goals we started out with, on the same path we had decided to follow. We will continue our struggle for the same dream—a world free from the Dark Lord, a world we envisioned for our friends and families. This we shall never change. This we shall never surrender.

"I accept this role in good faith, because you trust me. I will fulfill this role as best I can. I only ask as your Commander, and as your friend, that you do the same."

He turned from one side to another. He could not see what was in the faces of the people gathered around him, but he felt the weight of their stares. In the years he spent in darkness, he had learned to sense the emotion in a person's gaze, the intention from the way one breathes. And at that moment he felt only solemn determination from all around him. He was not going to stand alone. They would fight for this dream together.

He cried, "May the Phoenix rise victorious!"

Everyone rose to their feet and shouted it with him. Dumbledore watched them, contentment in his smile. As with all the choices he had made this year, he was well satisfied with this one.

* * *

Evening came, and the chilly breeze carried with it the soft rustling of leaves and the hooting of distant owls. Overhead the pallid moon slipped through a sea of stars, casting its glow into Dumbledore 's room in the Order 's Headquarters.

Lyle stood by the window, breathing in the cool evening air. "When I was young, I once believed that the figure on the moon is actually a wise rabbit, and all day he makes rice cakes that allow men to live forever."

"There are other legends," said Dumbledore behind him, "one says the figure up there is Pan Twerdowski, singing hymns to the earth while he sits waiting for the end of time." The Headmaster reclined into his comfortable chair by the fire and nursed the mug of hot chocolate in his hands. A small smile crossed Lyle's face as he imagined Dumbledore wearing his favorite pair of woolen socks.

"But you didn't come here to exchange folk tales with me," Dumbledore mused.

"No, I didn't," Lyle replied, turning to the sound of the old man's voice.

"It must be important, if you were able to resist Sirius and Remus 's attempts to kidnap you for a drinking session." The old man took a sip from his mug.

With his wand, Lyle guided himself to the chair opposite Dumbledore's. "There are some things I want to know."

"So it seems. Is something troubling you?"

Lyle laughed. "Oh, nothing much, I suppose. It's just that the greatest wizard of my time has just gone into semi-retirement, and I've been chosen to lead his Order to victory over the Dark Army. And I'm not even half his age, wisdom, or power. _That's_ what's troubling me."

"If it makes you feel better," replied Dumbledore. "I am not unhappy with the Order 's choice for my replacement. Nor, I take it, are most of the members."

"Thank you, but that hardly helps." Lyle put his wand away and braced his elbows on his knees. "Won't you tell me your reason for doing this? Because there _is_ another, a deeper one, isn't there."

Dumbledore smiled indulgently. "Perceptive, as always." He sighed and allowed himself to sink deeper into his chair. "It 's nothing that could possibly comfort you. My other reason, I 'm ashamed to say, is somewhat selfish.

"Hogwarts is my home, Lyle. Hogwarts is my heart. I wish to remain there if I can. People may say I have a responsibility to the world, but what the world needs changes from season to season. Hogwarts will always need teachers. That is my work, no...that is my calling.

"I believe it is my duty to remain at the school, to use all my power into making it a sanctuary. Should our world start to crumble, the people can be assured that at least their children are safe. This, I hope, would give them the courage to fight.

"Yet even if it did not, this will remain the one duty I cherish most, one I do not wish to surrender. I call that selfish, of course. But then, I believe it would be good for a man to have one duty he could be selfish about." He gazed at Lyle. "Perhaps you understand, since you did not refuse your nomination."

Lyle merely smiled in return.

"So we both acted out of sentimentality," Dumbledore said. "The fate of the world has been decided on more foolish things."

As the old man sipped his chocolate, Lyle reflected that he had known Dumbledore practically all his life, but he had never heard the old man speak so frankly. It dawned on him that, at that moment, Dumbledore considered him as his equal.

"But why me?" Lyle asked. "Why am I right for this task?"

Dumbledore 's eyes twinkled. "I should have known you would not be satisfied simply by popular opinion."

"That's because I know others did greater things outside of the limelight," Lyle responded hotly. "Arabella Figg's intelligence allowed us to at least keep up with the Death Eaters. Marius Haggerty outlined many of our strategies and almost single-handedly created our chain of command. Melvincent Galino trained more men in four months than I could ever train in a year. Bernard Frost has made certain the Ministry hasn't the barest whiff of our movements. Sirius Black and Remus Lupin risked life and limb chasing Voldemort's agents all across Britain. All these people are capable and deserving enough to be the leader, yet I get put before all of them. I get chosen to _lead _them.

"So I feel I need to ask: _why is this so?_"

Dumbledore took one last sip from his chocolate before putting the mug down on the table beside him. He relaxed, laid his hands on his lap and said, "Let me tell you a story.

"Once there was a little boy from a rich, upstanding wizard family. Like many boys his age, he was one day asked, 'What do you want to be when you grow up?' He had a ready answer: 'I want to be an Auror. '

"At this, his family laughed and ruffled his hair, saying, 'You can be whatever you want.'

"Soon his family sent him to a prestigious school for wizards and witches. There, many came to admire him—he was very smart, very brave, and most of all he knew what he wanted. While his friends wanted to be Medi-wizards or bankers or such, he said, 'I want to be an Auror.'

"By this time his family took him more seriously, because Defense Against the Dark Arts turned out to be his best subject. They said, 'An Auror 's life is full of hardship and the rewards are next to nothing! Be practical—you'll want a good-paying job, won't you? You'll want to earn enough to support a family, won't you? ' And they began talking about how much more suited he was to be a lawyer, a banker, a politician.

"The boy considered all this and shrugged. When he graduated, the headmaster, a kindly if rather befuddled old man, asked him what line of work he would be interested in. The boy asked him how one goes about being an Auror.

"'Why do you want to be an Auror? ' the old headmaster asked.

" 'Because I think that 's what I 'm meant to be doing, '" the boy said. "'No one keeps a candle in a well-lit room, when it shines brightest in the dark. '"

"He said this knowing full well that treacherous times were afoot, that an evil wizard was rising to power in Britain. He was not deterred. So the old headmaster put him in touch with a friend of his, an experienced Auror. When his family found out, they were alarmed and tried to stop them. Naturally, the old headmaster found himself in very hot water. But nothing could stop the boy. In no time at all he found himself studying Defense Against the Dark Arts, only this time in the Ministry of Magic. He worked harder than he had at school. Three years later he emerged a first-class, full-fledged Auror.

"By then the Dark Lord was at the height of his powers. Britain was in the grip of fear. The boy threw himself into his work, chasing after the Dark Lord 's followers, earning their everlasting enmity. He did very well and this did not go unnoticed. He was made captain. Later on he was awarded medals for his work. He made his superiors very proud.

"Then one day, the Head of Magical Law Enforcement issued without any fanfare Directive 4055. This directive allowed the Aurors free reign on the use of Unforgivable Curses against those suspected to be followers of the Dark Lord.

"When the young Auror received this Directive, he refused to follow it. He had been able to catch Dark Wizards without resorting to Dark Magic and murder, and he wanted to continue as such. But a number of other Aurors did not share this view. They embraced their new authority, their power. Many atrocities were committed during those fell years, on both sides of the conflict.

"One day, the young Auror responded to a call for help from a sister team. He and his men rushed to the scene, only to find that the Aurors were already victorious—and were summarily executing the captured Dark Wizards. In single horrible second, five more bodies lay cold on the dusty street. The young man would never forget that sight.

"Enraged, he arrested those Aurors and reported the incident to the Ministry Head. He wanted them put on trial. But his efforts were blocked by the wall that was Directive 4055. His superiors told him to keep quiet. Others said he was damaging the organization's morale. And even when he went he took his story to the papers, hardly anyone raised an outcry. The victims were, after all, Dark Wizards. No one wanted to hear about the rights of killers. Days later, the accused Aurors walked free.

"After this, the young Auror 's star began to fade. His superiors said he lacked the stomach to fight the Dark Side, and many of his peers forgot how often he risked his life out in the field with them. Life became difficult, but the young Auror kept to his duties even if he often had to work alone.

"But one can only do so many things alone.

"It happened one day, his fellows rushed to an emergency call. They found the young Auror lying amidst a web of shattered glass. He had been caught in a Death Eater ambush, shot through a window and fallen two stories. The young man somehow survived, but he lost his sight forever.

"Finally, finally the Dark Lord's power was broken. His followers were sent on the run and the world began to rebuild itself. Hardly anyone remembered the atrocities committed during the war. But the young Auror did. He would never forget it."

The firelight played on Dumbledore's glasses as he gazed at Lyle. The young man was completely silent.

"You know," Dumbledore said, "the story doesn't end there.

"Some years later, quite by chance, the young man met the befuddled old Headmaster again. After some pleasantries, the old man asked him about his job.

"'I'm no longer an Auror,' said the young man. And he told the Headmaster what had happened to him.

"'Well,' said the old man, 'why don't you come with me? There are some folks I'd like you to meet. We're starting a group of our own, and we need people like you.'

"At first, the young man 's handicap made him reluctant. But the old man persisted. He said, 'No one keeps a candle in a well-lit room. It shines brightest in the dark.'

"So the young man did join them, and the rest, as they say, is history."

Dumbledore leaned forward, hands on the arms of his chair.

"Lyle, the Order has picked the right person to be its caretaker—a man committed to walking the path his heart had forged. I have seen this for myself. Why doubt the good others see in you?"

Lyle sat still for a moment. Then he drew a deep breath and said, "Do you have any more chocolate?"

Dumbledore smiled. "Of course. You like yours cold, right?" He Summoned a mug from a cabinet, conjured some ice cubes, and poured him some chocolate from his pitcher. They sat together in silence, drinking and staring at the fire.

Finally, Lyle said, "Are you always so sure of your actions?"

Dumbledore smoothed his beard and said, "People make me sure of my actions. I just take my cue from them." He leaned forward again, "So tell me, what do you plan for tomorrow?"

Lyle sat up. His demeanor became serious, business-like. "Tomorrow, more meetings. We've a lot of work ahead of us. And I still have more questions for you, you know," he added, frowning. "Something tells me you've been up to a lot of other things, without telling us."

"Oh, I've been very good, let me assure you," said Dumbledore, palms up in a placating gesture.

Then they got up and shook hands. "I thank you sir," said Lyle, "for putting your faith in me."

"I have very good reasons for it, don't you think?"

Lyle smiled again, then began to leave. At the doorway he stopped and turned around. "There is one thing."

"What is it?"

"It 's not a question. More of a request really."

Dumbledore eyed him quizzically.

"Could we please _not_ refer to me as 'Chief Crazyhorse?'"

The old headmaster chuckled.

_To be continued_

_Dedicated to Richard Harris, 1930 - 2002._


	6. In The Lair Of The Serpent

**The ****Phoenix**** and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**_Chapter VI : In The Lair of the Serpent_**

Onyx Isle is located many miles south of England, far from any sight of land. During the Phoenix War, the Isle defied all attempts of pinpointing its exact location as it had the tendency to vanish and reappear somewhere else, probably via a Permanent Apparate Spell System installed by the Death Eaters (See Apparation, EA Vol. 1) ... Made of dark igneous rock and hardened lava flows, the Isle emerged after an undersea volcanic eruption of substantial intensity. Sharp crags jutting along its shores create a treacherous natural barrier against ships…

..No one is certain who had built the ruins on the Isle. Some historians claim the Isle had been the hidden retreat of Morgan le Fay. Others say Havlan had used the Isle during the height of the Ogre Wars. Still others believe it had been Grindelwald's forward base for his aborted assault on Britain.

_One thing for certain is that the Dark Lord rediscovered the Isle shortly after his second rise to power. When he landed on its shores, he had reputedly said, "Here shall I make my forge to darkness." He named it Onyx Isle and rebuilt the fortress in its heart. _

**_— _**_Excerpts from "Onyx Isle",** Encyclopedia Arcana **_

The Flying Dutchman had been alive once; a sturdy ship with tall masts and sails like the white wings of doves, running trade voyages as far north as Iceland and as far south as the Cape of Good Hope. That was long, long ago. Now her journeys were confined to but a handful of places. Her steady wooden planks had gone corpse-gray, her sails pale as an old crone's hair. Her own captain would not have recognized her, but then he now slept at the bottom of the sea, sent there centuries before by the ship's current captain.

The Flying Dutchman ferried only one passenger that day, a tall stranger who stood at the ship's bow. He was scarecrow-thin, pallid, and clad in black from the tall collar of his billowing cloak to the shiny leather of his boots. A long crimson scarf clung around his shoulders and a skullcap covered his bald head. His ivory beard was well-trimmed, his long, hooked fingers were lined with golden rings. A pair of dark round glasses perched on his aqualine nose.

He stood with his hands on the railing, staring into the mists beyond. The sea was choppy today—a storm wind stirred whitecaps from the waves, and he breathed in the heavy scent of brine. Presently, the captain of the ship, a stooped, gap-toothed shadow of a man, floated over to where he stood.

"Pleas'nt mornin' to ye, sir," he said in a disembodied voice.

"And to you, Captain," returned the man.

"Ye can't see it yet, not through this weath'r."

"Actually," he said, "I can see it just fine." Far off, the stone crags of Onyx Isle emerged from the mist, like a jaw of a gigantic sea monster. "How do we get past the barriers surrounding the Isle?"

The captain cackled, not a pleasant sound.

"Me bonnie ship knows how, sir, ye'll see."

The stranger did not have to wait long to find out what the Captain meant. Several yards from the jagged rocks the ship began to rise into the air. It flew higher and higher, clearing the massive spires with ease.

"Interesting," the stranger said as he watched the rocks pass beneath them. "Your vessel more than lives up to its name."

"Aye," replied the ghost, 'tis not bad place to be, me Flyin' Dutchman. Unless ye've to spend all 'ternity in it."

The stranger grabbed the rails for support as the ship landed on the rocky beach with a loud crash. When the ship steadied itself, he straightened up and adjusted his glasses.

"I thank you, Captain, for taking me here. It has been a pleasant journey."

The ghost bellowed his laughter as they moved to the gangway, "Thar's somethin' I won't be hearin' again! Them Death Eaters don't get a wink o' sleep in me Flyin' Dutchman—they be quakin' in their beds long into the night. But you..."

They stood at the plank for a moment. "I would shake hands," said the stranger, "but seeing as we're on different stages of corporeality, perhaps a salute will do?" He did so.

"Aye," grinned the captain, returning the gesture. "Glory to the Dark Lord."

"Yes," replied the man, "quite." He turned and walked down the sloping gangway onto the rocky shore.

The captain called after him. "The Death Eaters will be comin' to get their shipment. You did let them know yer comin', aye?"

The stranger said nothing, but turned his gaze up to his destination.

The fortress loomed before him, massive as a thundercloud. In the places where its walls touched the land's cliff edges, it created a hundred foot drop into the swirling ocean below. Its highest tower vanished into the low gray clouds overhead. Though hewn from the cold gray stone of the Isle, the fortress somehow did not seem part of it. It looked more like a huge claw clutching onto the heart of the land, an image reinforced by the steel, talon-shaped spikes running along its battlements.

"So this is where you live now, Voldemort?" the man whispered. "What a difference a year can make."

He began trudging up the path carved out of the volcanic rock. He had walked perhaps fifty paces when the air suddenly shimmered and eight Death Eaters Apparated around him, wands in hand.

"Halt," said the one directly in front of him. He did.

"Trespasser," the leader went on, "you have entered the territory of the Dark Lord Voldemort. You will drop your wand and surrender at once. Resist and you will be killed where you stand."

"You're rather late," the man said, clasping his hands behind his back. "I expected to be accosted the moment I set foot on the beach."

The leader narrowed his eyes.

"I have business with your master," the visitor went on. "I am Andros Gallowbraid. Perhaps someone here has heard of me? Ah, I see," he said, noting their blank looks, "all new recruits. Charming. Now stand aside."

"Be silent!" roared the leader. "I remember no Andros Gallowbraid on the roster of Death Eaters. Now yield, or die!"

"My dear fellow," Gallowbraid said mildly, "you do not remember my name in the roster because it simply isn't listed. I am no Death Eater..."

The others quickly raised their wands.

"...but I am an agent of the Dark Lord. He knows me from way back, and will be most displeased at the mistreatment of a comrade. Now, much as I hate to repeat myself, get out of my way."

The Death Eaters began to look uncertain at these words and at Gallowbraid's relaxed demeanor, but their leader remained adamant. "The Dark Lord will confirm that himself, when I bring you before him in a Full-Body Bind." Gallowbraid heard a grin in that voice. "I see no proof of your identity—all I have are words! And now, much as _I _hate to repeat myself, surrender or—"

Gallowbraid muttered something under his breath. The Death Eater abruptly stopped talking and stood motionless.

Gallowbraid nodded to him. "What's the matter, my friend? Weren't you just saying something?"

All eyes now turned to the leader, who kept staring straight at the trespasser.

"Come now, say something. I believe most of your sentences end with 'or die.'"

There was silence, then a low groan emitted from the leader's throat. The Death Eaters exchanged alarmed glances. The one behind Gallowbraid aimed his wand and began muttering a spell. His incantation ended with a scream as his own wand turned on him, igniting his robes. "Put it out, put it out!" he cried as he flailed about, flames consuming him.

Another Death Eater tried to cast a curse. Gallowbraid merely threw a glance at her, then her wand arm twisted like a corkscrew and she fell to the ground screaming. Her horrified companions could only watch as her arm kept deforming itself, and when it broke with a wet snapping sound she passed out from the agony. Some of her comrades dropped their wands. Others retreated several steps more from the intruder.

Throughout the chaos, Gallowbraid had kept his hands behind his back.

"My friend," he said to the still-frozen leader, "you have had the grave misfortune of being born after my time, and if I may add, being perhaps a tad too ambitious. But fear not. I will commend your bravery to the Dark Lord when I meet with him. Perhaps he will remember the devotion you have shown today, and will allow other youths to be inspired by your example." He smiled a cruel, pointed grin.

The leader suddenly hurtled backwards as if struck by an invisible giant fist. All eyes were riveted to his body as he flew through the air without so much as a scream, rocketing headfirst towards a lone pillar of solid rock—

And froze in mid-flight one yard from a deadly collision.

Gallowbraid turned his gaze up to the lone Death Eater who had Apparated on top of the pillar, wand pointed at the suspended body. Like his comrades, he was clad in black from head to foot, his features concealed by a mask. The sea breeze made his robes billow like a dark cloud. With a wave of his wand he countered the curse. The young Death Eater dropped to the ground, dazed but alive.

The newcomer's voice was deep and calm. "Magnus Aragon, Captain of the Onyx Wing." He slipped his wand into his belt. In an instant he Reapparated a few meters before Gallowbraid. Even on level ground, he towered head and shoulders over the others.

Gallowbraid tapped his chin. "Magnus. Yes, I've heard of you. Lucius Malfoy's kinsman, correct? I see the rumors about your skills with the wand are true…"

"You have hexed a Death Eater officer with intent to kill," Magnus interrupted coldly. "An act of treason on the Dark Lord's own Isle."

"Treason?" Gallowbraid repeated, smiling at Magnus. "I was merely instructing these young men and women on the dictum our Lord Voldemort wishes to ingrain into those who serve him. _Death is power_, and power is the raison d'etre of you Death Eaters. Surely you can see that."

Magnus's hood fell back as he removed his mask. He was young, but the hair that fell onto his shoulders was coarse and bone-white. His face could have been cut from stone, from his wide forehead to the solid chin above his thick neck. "What I see," he said, "is an officer nearly killed for performing his duty." His face remained empty, but his pale blue eyes blazed with ill-concealed fury. "And the Dark Order exists only to serve Lord Voldemort; you insult us all by saying otherwise."

Gallowbraid laughed. "How simple you are, dancing so willingly to every jerk of your master's strings. Very well, play your little games if you must. I have my business to attend to. Let me pass."

In response, Magnus drew back his cloak with his left arm. His wand hung like a sword from a leather sheath on his belt. His right hand flexed minutely.

Gallowbraid's grin vanished. "So be it. I will oblige you, Captain, since you're so eager to die."

The Death Eaters surrounding them faltered back another step. The two men were only staring stonily at each other, yet the very air between them seemed charged, as if they were about to be struck by lightning.

But before either could move, yet another man Apparated in their midst. He was short, rotund, balding, and his face was red with anxiety. A hand of pure silver glittered from his left arm.

"Cease and desist!" he bellowed, "Death Eaters stand down! What's happening here?"

"Nothing to be concerned with, sir," growled Magnus. "Merely disposing of some refuse that washed up on the beach."

Pettigrew whirled to face Gallowbraid and instantly paled, a look of recognition and horror crossing his face. "_You!_ What are you doing here! How dare you simply barge in—"

Gallowbraid smiled again, but remained facing his opponent. "A pleasure to see you, Peter Pettigrew. Or do you prefer Wormtail? Are you well?"

"You're jeopardizing the Isle's security! Lord Voldemort will—"

"Yes, yes. I would love to discuss the virtues of a safe haven with you. Just now, however, I must keep a pressing engagement with his lordship. Do you mind showing me the way, or must I persist on my own?"

"I-I received no instructions to let you in!" Wormtail said in a shrill voice.

"I received instructions to let myself in."

Pettigrew bit down on his fear and outrage, and turned to Magnus. "Captain Aragon! In the name of Lord Voldemort, I must ask you to stand down!"

Magnus did not budge, kept his gaze locked on Gallowbraid's dark glasses.

"Magnus! I said stand down! Lord Voldemort will not tolerate any further aggression!"

Several tense moments passed. Finally, Magnus allowed his cloak to fall back over his wand. His right hand, however, did not relax.

"Well, well," Gallowbraid said, "Looks like you have moved up in the world, Wormtail. Now, the Dark Lord?"

He began walking again without waiting for a reply. The circle of Death Eaters hastily broke to let him pass. All save for Magnus.

As Gallowbraid passed him, Magnus said, "As Officer-on-Duty, I must warn you not to wander freely through the fortress without Voldemort's expressed permission." His voice dropped a notch. "If you stray, one cannot say what sort of misfortune may befall you." Then he Disapparated.

Gallowbraid continued up the path towards the fortress. "Coming, Wormtail?" he called. "I don't think you want me stumbling about the castle. I might meet another zealous youngster intent on stopping me. Don't want to jeopardize security any further now, do we?"

Pettigrew hesitated, considered reporting directly to the Dark Lord, but decided his punishment would be more severe if he could not contain another potential disaster. "Don't just stand there!" he shouted at the remaining Death Eaters. "Bring the cargo inside. Be quick about it! We're behind schedule as it is!" Then he scurried after Gallowbraid.

When he caught up, Gallowbraid said, "I wasn't aware of the Isle's whereabouts, but the Captain was accommodating enough to take me here along with your new shipment."

Pettigrew's eyes narrowed. "How did you find out about the shipment? Who told you about The Flying Dutchman?"

"I was in France when I received Voldemort's summons. I contacted Crabbe while he was in Wales and he introduced me to the Captain. As for your precious cargo, I've no interest in that. I don't know what you're hiding in there."

"You expect me to believe you?"

Gallowbraid laughed. "Believe what you want, Wormtail. It matters little to me either way. Where is Lord Voldemort?"

"…He's in the North Tower," Pettigrew said through gritted teeth.

The main entrance was blocked by a portcullis of black steel. "Open the gate!" shouted Pettigrew. A confirmation rang down from the gatehouse and portcullis began to lift, groaning like a tortured man. The two of them walked into the gloomy maw of the castle. Pettigrew had to walk slowly, but Gallowbraid did not once stumble in the dark.

They came to the main hall of the fortress. Large, torch-bearing statues flanked the huge double doors of studded brass. Gallowbraid studied them as he passed. The one to his left was ox-headed: a minotaur. The one to his right was a horse-headed _tikbalang_, an earth spirit indigenous to Southeast AsiaGallowbraid noted that their eyes followed him as he walked.

The main hall itself was vast enough to fit a full army. Six stout granite pillars, carved to give the impression of monstrous, coiled serpents, supported the high domed ceiling. Long banners of the Dark Mark hung from the walls. Frescoes featuring scenes of death and destruction had been painted on the walls below them. Some Death Eaters were busily making yet another, each of their wands directing at least half a dozen brushes.

"I must commend your workforce, Wormtail," said Gallowbraid, "for creating such a fortress in but a year."

"The outer sections were from the original fortress," replied Pettigrew, "but many of the newer sections were taken from an old castle in Bulgaria. It took a tremendous amount of spellcasting to move it here piece by piece, but in the end we saved more time."

"The architects are graduates from Durmstrang, perhaps?"

"They are. his lordship chose only the best to work on his home. As it is, we have completed only the structure of the fortress—"

"Leaving only the decorations unfinished. So who is handling that? You?" The cruel smile returned.

"Malfoy's wife is overseeing the final touches to the Dark Lord's home," seethed Wormtail. "I am his Adjutant. I work on military matters."

"Of course you do. Now, which way to the Tower?"

They walked to the center of the hall where lay a circular dais of black marble. The platform was surrounded by a round steel railing with gaps on opposite sides. Wormtail quickly climbed onto the platform through a gap, motioning for Gallowbraid to follow. When they both stood within the railing, Wormtail said, "This is his lordship's private mode of transportation in the fortress." He pointed his wand at the floor and said, "North Tower."

The circular tiles dislodged themselves and lifted them soundlessly through the air. Gallowbraid looked down at the swiftly receding floor, then turned his face up to the ceiling.

Several large holes gaped in the stone, and the platform slipped into one of them. Inside was darkness and a warm draft, which for a moment gave Gallowbraid the impression of being in the gullet of some gigantic beast.

The tiles shifted direction beneath their feet. Seconds later, a pale green light seeped into the passageway from the exit above. It grew brighter as they approached, until they entered an antechamber. Gallowbraid saw that the light emanated from dozens of torches and braziers burning with yellow-green flames. Turning to his right, he faced a pair of massive ironroot double doors.

The platform stopped at the level of the floor and both men got off. Wormtail moved to the double doors, but they opened on their own and Lucius Malfoy stepped out.

"Ah, there you are, Peter," he said, then shifted his attention completely to their guest. "Andros Gallowbraid, a pleasure to see you again! It's been some time." If Malfoy had any misgivings about seeing Gallowbraid, he made certain not to show it. He even held out his hand, which Gallowbraid accepted.

"The pleasure is mine, Lucius. It is refreshing to finally meet a member of the Inner Circle," He ignored Wormtail's glare.

"I had just informed his lordship of your arrival," Malfoy continued. "Let's not tarry any longer. The Dark Lord has asked me to show you into his Chambers."

"My thanks, Lucius."

Malfoy moved to make way for them. The walked through a long hallway, lined with similar green-flame torches.

"We received word of your arrival from the Officer-on-Duty," Malfoy said, "I understand there was some trouble…"

"Hardly," Gallowbraid replied. "Some upstart lieutenant wanted to curry the Dark Lord's favor. His Captain interfered with his schooling."

"I see. In any event, please excuse my nephew. He tends to be overly scrupulous in such matters. I have advised him to overlook such trivial things, yet he persists. Ah, the youth! To be fair, Voldemort allows him and his cohorts free reign on the military because of their unquestioned sense of duty."

Gallowbraid nodded. "I'll grant him that. He certainly did have balls."

"To put it that way, yes he does. Amazing, isn't it, the loyalty that may be gained from such men?"

"What did Lord Voldemort promise them?"

"What they wanted, of course. A new World Order, free from the shackles of incompetent civil governments, a world they could shape with their own dreams and their own hands. Or something to that effect. Whatever keeps them faithful.

"And the Dark Lord builds his army on the backs of such loyal servants. Why, it was this generation's efforts that allowed the rapid reorganization of the Death Eaters. We culled some of our people from Durmstrang, but others came from abroad—subversives hiding from their governments, mercenaries, riffraff, et cetera. We have more members in our ranks, yet all are well trained and disciplined. All thanks to our young commanders. So you see, it would be a grievous blow to the Dark Order should we, ah, lose Magnus's services."

Gallowbraid laughed inwardly. Malfoy had not changed over the years. If it was true that the Death Eaters had reformed into a well-organized syndicate, then he had made certain his family was built into the power structure before the time of victory. Magnus was an investment worth protecting.

"Tell me something, Lucius," he asked abruptly, "why did the Death Eaters attack Thistleberry two nights before? I do not find any merit in such a piddling little village."

"Ah," Malfoy said, smirking, "Lord Voldemort said our supply of Muggle volunteers was coming up short."

Gallowbraid frowned. "Volunteers?"

"I would love to give you the details, but his lordship wants the pleasure of explaining it himself."

They reached the end of the hallway, where stood another set of heavy double doors. Upon them was a large steel sculpture of a snake biting its own tail. Gallowbaid recognized Orobouros, the Eternal Serpent.

"Welcome to our Master's—er, how should I say it—Meditation Chamber," said Malfoy. "It is not really wise to disturb him while he's in here, but I am certain this is a matter of great import. Would you do the honors, Peter?"

Wormtail did not look happy at all with this request, but he stepped forward and raised the knocker. He released it, and a loud _bong_ sounded into the room.

"Master!" called Wormtail. "Your loyal servant brings you your honored guest, Andros Gallowbraid! We humbly ask for an audience, my Lord!"

There was a pause, then the steel serpent came alive. Eyes glowing a baleful yellow, it crawled in a fluid circle on the doors' surface. The sound of grinding gears filled the air. It halted when the snake's head reached the apex of the circle, then the sculpture split in two as the doors grated open.

For the first time in years, Gallowbraid heard the Dark Lord's voice, like the low keening of the north wind through barren trees.

"_Enter_."

The three men stepped into the room. A crimson carpet covered the floor. Heavy curtains blocked the windows, leaving the room deep in shadow. The fireplace at the other end of the room was a massive stone sculpture of a dragon's head, a crackling fire burning in its jaws. Before the fire, six high-backed chairs threw long fingers of shadow onto the carpeted floor. Near the center chair, an enormous serpent lay coiled, asleep.

"My lord?" Wormtail called, shivering.

A figure stood from the tallest chair and turned to face them, and once more Gallowbraid met the carnivorous red eyes of the Dark Lord. He felt hatred flare in his heart, but it was matched by a cold spasm of fear. He suppressed a shudder and with a calm face bent on one knee.

"My lord," he said, "I am at your service."

"Welcome back, Andros," intoned Voldemort. The last syllable came in a low hiss. "I trust you put the small time you had out of my service to good use?"

"Fifteen years isn't exactly small time, my Lord," Gallowbraid said. "I have scoured the Earth, gathering as much knowledge and power as I could, readying myself should the time to serve you come again."

The Dark Lord gave a hollow laugh. His red eyes remained fixed on Gallowbraid's hidden ones. The fire at the hearth seemed to waver, as if threatened by a gust of wind.

"In other words, you spent fifteen years trying to find a way out of your contract. You have changed little, faithless one. Tell me, have I changed? What do you see before you, through those eyes of yours?"

Gallowbraid paused, taking in the slender, corpse-white frame swathed in long, dark robes. "…I see that my lord is well and healthy, that he has recovered to full strength." Gallowbraid tilted his head. "Yet there is something else. I cannot decipher it…"

"Can you not guess, Andros?" Voldemort said as he moved towards him, arms akimbo. His long robe slithered behind him. "I have something else in this flesh that makes me more than what I was, fifteen years ago."

Gallowbraid instantly realized what this meant. He had known of such a spell and the terrible price it exacted, and was impressed that Voldemort had been able to snatch so much from certain doom. He was certainly more powerful now, with the blood of his enemy flowing through his veins, but there was something else. Something was amiss in the way Voldemort held his body, and Gallowbraid imagined he saw a subtle stiffness in those limbs, a tiny spasm in the muscles of a hand. He could not fathom what these meant, but his intuition, honed by many years of treachery and deceit, told him that the Dark Lord was not as strong and hale as he claimed to be.

Nonetheless Gallowbraid said, "…I see. You used the Necropotence Spell. It has restored your body and your power," he grinned as he remembered something, and slowly turned to Pettigrew. "I can see why you made Wormtail here your right-hand man."

Wormtail started to bluster, but fell silent as Voldemort said, "He has proven himself useful, Andros. You have yet to do so. Now, rise."

When Gallowbraid stood up, Malfoy said, "My lord, good news. The shipment has arrived and is ready for use. The preparations should begin any moment now."

"Of course it is, Lucius. I shall begin my inspection shortly. Join me, both of you, and I will explain what needs to be done. We have plenty to discuss." He gestured to Wormtail. "Bring me the Felwing Skull."

Wormtail bowed and fled to a dark corner of the room. Voldemort led Malfoy and Gallowbraid to the circle of chairs and bade them to sit. They were close to the fire, but neither man felt the least bit warm.

"Tell me, Gallowbraid," said Voldemort, "what do you think of my new abode?"

"It is truly a wonder. I have not seen anything so quickly constructed, yet still formidable."

"It had to be as such, Andros. This fortress does not merely function as a Death Eater base." He steepled his fingers before him. "You have seen the shipment?"

"I'm sorry, my Lord. I have not."

"It does not matter. You shall know soon enough." He paused as Wormtail came to his chair, holding a large, ornate skull in his hands. Gallowbraid stared at it. It was bird-like in shape, it appeared to have had two pairs of eyes, and rows of jagged teeth still lined its massive jaws.

Voldemort ran his fingers over the artifact, as if in affection. "The Felwing, known also as the Sky-Shark. Cunning, savage, implacable, and now all but extinct. Yet during the Dark Ages, nothing was more feared than a Felwing hunting pack. They advanced over Europe in a black tide, savaging people, destroying whole communities. Feared not only for their ferocity and their numbers, but also for their relentlessness. Should a village repel an attack, it was certain that the Felwing would one day return in greater numbers, attacking again and again until the village was finally destroyed." He smiled, a terrible, rictus grin. "So shall my Death Eaters be."

He turned his gaze to the men gathered before him. "When I rose again, I decided that my followers needed a change. In the past we were too scattered, too disorganized. We knew what we wanted, but we allowed the path to lead us. We did not forge it, and thus were we easily scattered. But we shall do things differently now. The time has come to lead not a mob, but an army."

He raised the skull with one hand. "All of you, stand up and lay your hand on this."

When they did so, Voldemort whispered, "_Necropolis_."

There was a blinding flash of green, the sensation of being pulled through the air, and when Gallowbraid looked about, they were no longer in Voldemort's chambers.

"This is not merely a home, Andros," said Voldemort. "It is a factory."

"'Factory', my Lord?"

"A Muggle concept that I have borrowed. Factories are created for the purpose of 'mass production.' That is the function here."

Andros peered around him. They had been transported to the bottom of a huge cavern, perhaps the very bowels of the fortress. The ceiling soared at least a hundred feet above them. Levels were carved onto the stone walls, the widest being the topmost circle, then gradually shrinking to a small circle at the base that spanned some twenty paces. It looked like a hive turned upside-down. Everywhere he turned there were torches and braziers, yet somehow, instead of illuminating the place, they only made the shadows more pronounced.

On the walls of each level were cells fitted with thick iron bars. Things moved in the shadows within. Gallowbraid's ears caught the sound of snarls and low growling. Death Eaters were moving from one cell to another, buckets in their hands.

"I used to despise Muggles and all things related to them," said the Dark Lord as he moved to the circle at the base of the room, "but now I see they have their uses."

At the center of the circle sat a huge cauldron, its sides long grayed by the billowing flames. Beside it were rows of wax-sealed clay jars. Three Death Eaters were busy opening the jars and carefully pouring what looked like molten silver, streaked with black, into the cauldron.

"What is it?" Andros asked, approaching.

Beside him, Malfoy said, "I'm sure you're familiar with this substance. A prime ingredient in Sleeping Draughts?"

Gallowbraid paused for a moment. "Not wormwood?"

"It is."

"I've never seen wormwood like this."

"It is in its purest form," said the Dark Lord, "unadulterated by anthreise and other foreign matter." He dipped one skeletal finger into the cauldron and drew it out. It shone, reflecting the torchlight. "The giants were magnanimous enough to tell us of a place in Southern Ireland where we could mine 'pretty silver.' They did not realize it was something far more valuable."

Gallowbraid said, "And what, may I ask, do you need it for? Wormwood alone is a powerful toxin. Without the other necessary ingredients for the Sleeping Draught, any wizard who swallowed a spoonful would die in excruciating pain." He paused again. "This shall be your weapon, then? Poison?"

The Dark Lord grinned again and started walking. They followed him, Wormtail purposely falling behind as if he knew what was coming.

"It is true, Gallowbraid," said Voldemort, "that wormwood is a poison. And yes, it did cross my mind to use it as such. But many poisons have an antidote, as you should well know. Assassination alone will not assure a victory. No, I have found a much better use for our precious cargo.

"Wormwood is poisonous to our kind, Gallowbraid, yet have you ever wondered what it would do to Muggles?"

They were walking towards the cells. The sound of growling came louder, more ferocious.

"Two hundred years ago, the wizard Nightgaunt wrote of a strange behavior his Muggle test subjects exhibited when he fed them Sleeping Draught. Instead of falling into slumber, the Muggles...changed. In his journals he wrote, 'they transformed into vicious, twisted versions of themselves, as if they had been deformed from birth. Their strength doubled by madness, they snarled and clawed the doors of their prison in wild attempts to escape...'"

They were walking along the line of cells. Gallowbraid looked inside them in amazement. There were..._things_ in there.

They were large and gray-skinned, with long, pointed ears, arms as long as a gorilla's, mouths lined with needle-like teeth and hands with dagger claws. Some were bald, others covered with shaggy, matted hair. They growled and snapped at him as he passed, yellow eyes glittering madly.

Before them, Voldemort continued. "Nightgaunt studied his concoction and eventually concluded that an overdose of wormwood had caused the effect. He believed it was _pure_ wormwood, a very rare natural occurrence. He was captured before completing his research, however. Still, he would have been happy to know that his studies have not gone to waste."

He approached a particularly large cell. The Death Eater there rigidly bowed before him.

"Master."

"MacNair. How is my child?"

"My lord, he has grown stronger, just as you predicted. Two days ago he succeeded in bending the bars of his cell despite the Reinforcing Charm we had installed, and we had to put up a stronger one. It seems the larger dose of wormwood is causing him to change further instead of killing him, as it had with the others."

Voldemort nodded. "He has not disappointed me. He will serve me well when his time arrives." He half-turned to Gallowbraid. "I would have liked to demonstrate a transformation for you, but the time is late, and our larder of Muggles is used up at the moment. You will have to be content with seeing the end result." He raised his palm and a sphere of orange light materialized over it. "Come closer and examine this one. He is my favorite."

With the exception of Wormtail, they approached the illuminated cage, peering at its lone occupant.

Gallowbraid had seen many wondrous and fearsome creatures in all his years of wandering, but he had met nothing like this nightmare. It was prowling about the cage on all fours. Its body was smaller than an ogre's, yet it looked very compact, its muscles twitching and rippling along its arms and chest like snakes writhing beneath its skin. Its skin was scaly and shiny black, from the tip of its dog-like face to its stub tail. Its eyes were completely round and bereft of eyelids, iris and cornea; in the gloom they shone with a pale, unnatural light. A clicking sound emanated from the creature. At first Gallowbraid thought it was the sound of its claws on the stone floor, but it turned out to be something else. Huge gray mandibles protruded from either side of the creature's slavering jaws. They clicked together noisily, reminding him of a grotesque and hungry mantis.

"Michael Dunn," said Voldemort.

The creature stopped pacing, sensing their presence. Then it raised itself on its hind legs like a man and let out an unearthly cry in two voices—an ear-splitting screech and deep rumbling roar. Its mandibles clicked furiously.

Malfoy took a step back. Behind him, Gallowbraid heard Wormtail whimper.

"I have waited a year," whispered Voldemort, "a full year for the final fruition of my plans. Now I have my fortress. I have my troops. And I have my children. Together, they shall lead the front lines, tearing my enemies to pieces. They shall tread on the heads of the infidels. They shall carve out my Empire with their claws."

He turned to face Gallowbraid and Malfoy. "Preparations need to be done. Your role, Andros, is vital. You will make sure no united force shall stand against my army."

"And by a united force, you mean the Order of the Phoenix?"

Voldemort smiled. "So you keep abreast of current events, after all. Dumbledore's little band of toy soldiers have eluded our grasp for some time now, but they will not do so for long. I have planned their defeat, and you shall be instrumental to it. I am sending you to the mainland. Lucius shall accompany you and provide the details. There are some people in London I wish you to meet."

"London, you say?" Gallowbraid adjusted the glasses on his face and nodded dubiously. "I will be much obliged to go there, Your Lordship. There is however, just one thing that brooks attention..."

"Speak."

"While I am virtually unknown here in Britain, I'm afraid that a certain person would recognize me on the spot should I meet him in the city. You know who I speak of, and you know that a disguise will not help me keep my cover."

Voldemort dismissed this with a gesture. "I have no interest in your petty feuds. Kill him if you must. Only, complete your mission by the appointed time."

"Thank you, Your Lordship. And what shall I do when I see these people you wish me to meet?"

Voldemort raised his hands, palms up. "What you do best, Andros. Make them our friends." Grinning, he turned to Malfoy. "Make sure you make the necessary introductions for him."

"I shall, my Lord," Malfoy said, bowing.

"Very well. Go, and do not fail." Voldemort gestured to Wormtail, who handed Malfoy and Gallowbraid the Felwing Skull. They touched it, and in a flash of light they were back before the fire in Voldemort's chamber.

Gallowbraid said, "That was...quite interesting."

"Indeed. Exciting as well, wouldn't you agree? They are even conducting experiments on animals, just to see what we might come up with." Malfoy adjusted the collar of his robes, smiling in satisfaction. "With such a force assembled, the Dark Lord's victory is all but assured. Still, there's a lot left to do. There is a room nearby where we may Disapparate." He gestured to the double doors. "Shall we be on our way?"

"Of course," said Gallowbraid. As they left the chamber, Malfoy said, "Well then, what do you have in mind for this person you mentioned? I can provide you with manpower, if need be."

"He's not the type easily surprised or fooled, I'm afraid," replied Gallowbraid. "I shall assess the situation first. I'll know what I'll need soon enough." He grinned. It had been a long time since he felt this keen, savage thrill, this anticipation one has only for his favorite game.

"It will give me distinct pleasure to finally destroy Alastor Moody."

After they had left, Voldemort remained by the cage, staring into the featureless eyes of his creation. Wormtail eventually worked up enough courage to come closer.

"My lord," he said, "if I may speak my mind?"

"What is it?"

"Please forgive me, but I do not think it wise to trust someone like Gallowbraid with our secrets. He must certainly bear a grudge against you. What if he betrays us to our enemies? What if he changes sides?"

Again that humorless grin. "You tell me nothing I have not considered, Wormtail. Do you take me for an imbecile?"

"Of course not, my Lord! I did not mean to imply—"

"Enough. I know Gallowbraid's heart as clearly as my own. I have a guarantee against his betrayal. He will not turn on us."

"Why not, my Lord?"

"Let us just say I have him by the neck, Wormtail. As such, he is useful to me—you may content yourself with that. He remains the first of my three great servants."

Wormtail blinked. "Three, my Lord?"

"Yes. Gallowbraid, the first, goes to Britain to sow discord in the wizarding world. By the time they find him out it will be far too late. The second hides at this very moment in Hogwarts. Like a parasite killing a lion from within, my servant will bring that insipid old man and his school to ruin. And the last is here, in this very cage."

He slowly reached his arm into the cage, beckoning.

"Come forward, Michael Dunn. Come to me."

The beast sniffed the air, its mandibles clicking rapidly.

"Come, my loyal pet. Your hatred is potent but unfocused, a flashfire on a waterless plain. But I shall give it purpose. I shall give it aim. After my servants have fulfilled their tasks, you shall fulfill yours."

It crept forward and lay before Voldemort, its face turned up at his hand. Voldemort's sanguine eyes locked with its moonlit ones. He raised his arm high over its head, then his other hand snaked forth, bearing a shiny knife. He cut his right arm at the wrist. Blood flowed, dark red in the torchlight.

"Taste this blood, my child," he hissed. "A little wine to warm your guts. Let its scent fester in your mind until you can think of nothing else. When I set you free, you will not rest until you have tasted it again. Until you have drawn it from the other who bears it."

The blood flowed down his bone-white skin and dripped into the creature's waiting mouth.

"That's it, my Doom Hound. Savor this sweet draught. When the time comes, hunt him down. Bring him to me, dead or alive. Bring me the one who dared stand in my way. Bring me Harry Potter!"

The Doom Hound, so named, drank down the blood, then doubled over as if in agony. It growled and snapped, mandibles working as it writhed on the cold stone floor. Voldemort threw back his head and laughed. His shrill laughter carried throughout the cavern, and it seemed as if every shadow there was laughing with him.

_To be continued_


	7. Bloodhound and Caracal

**The ****Phoenix**** and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

            **Chapter VII:  Bloodhound and Caracal**

Harry woke to the gentle swaying of the carriage and to a dull ache on his forehead. He moaned, touching his fingers to his scar. It did not hurt so much, not like the flaring pain he had sometimes felt over the past year, but it was nevertheless persistent. He rubbed at it for a moment, still half-asleep, then remembered what had happened and where he was.

He forced a blank look on his face as he glanced up at the person sitting across from him in the carriage. Mad-Eye Moody was wordlessly cracking open some chestnuts from a bag on his lap. They had exchanged no more than dozen words since yesterday, something Harry found oddly reassuring. Barty Crouch Jr. had been kind and accommodating to him once, only to try and kill him in the end. This Moody, brusque and uncommunicative, suited him just fine.

Beside the old man sat a large golden aerial-like object Harry had seen before—one of the Auror's Dark Detectors. Harry found this odd. The old man apparently did not have any sort of luggage with him—how had he been carrying this device?

Moody's magical eye, as always, was darting watchfully from place to place, but his real eye had been giving him a sidelong glance.

"You all right?" he asked. His voice was as rough as the carriage wheels grinding into the gravel path. 

"I'm fine," Harry said. 

Moody grunted as if he had expected this answer, then said, "Potter, if you have strange dreams during our journey, any at all, I want you to let me know, as you have with Professor Dumbledore. Information on Voldemort's movements will come in handy, not to mention it might save our lives."

"All right," said Harry, though he did not feel all right with that. What the old man said made good sense, but Harry was not about to share with Moody every dream he just had.

_(Not if it involved Ginny.)_

Harry bit his lip, trying not to think about her.

Truth to be told, the pain on his forehead was already vanishing. And even if it wasn't, there wouldn't be anything to talk about. As usual there had been only deep darkness. Well, there was one thing he could recall, and it was hardly worth mentioning. Just a strange, sharp clicking sound.

Harry leaned back and rubbed his eyes. They had been traveling for two days now. Moody had been using circuitous back roads in and around the Forbidden Forest. They had not used a black Hogwarts carriage, but an ancient, rickety hold-over from the Victorian period. Its constant swaying, even on flat roads, caused Harry to nod off several times during the journey.

Moody turned to stare out the window, and for want of anything to do, Harry looked out as well. The morning sun filtered through the forest canopy, welcomed by the chirping of hidden birds. It was already too late for mist and still too early for it to be warm. Harry had hoped they would pass a sign or familiar landmark, but only trees and tall grass marked their path. Maybe they weren't using a main road?

"Where are we going?" Harry asked. It was about time he got an answer.

He saw Moody twitch. He looked sour—that is, from what Harry could discern of his face, more sour than usual.

 "We're meeting up with the other half of your bodyguard retinue. Lives 'round these parts." 

_That's right, thought Harry. __What was his name again? Daniel Oaks, that's it. Harry was about to ask another question, but the whinnying of the horseless carriage cut him off. _

"Finally," Moody grumbled as they came to a halt. Putting on his hat, he threw the carriage door open, letting sunlight in. Harry got up to go but Moody stopped him. 

"No," he said. "Whenever getting off a vehicle, the bodyguard always goes first. Then he signals for you to follow after he's checked everything out. Remember that." Harry sat back as Moody picked up the Dark Detector beside him and got off. He took a few paces forward, turning his eye this way and that. Finally, he signaled for Harry to come down.

They had stopped on top of a rise.  Further on the path wound down to a small village surrounded by forested hills. A sign to their left read 'Evensdale'.

"So," asked Harry as he scanned the distant rooftops, "where would his house be?" 

"He doesn't live _in_ the town—that's some comfort for the folks here. We'll find him through there." He indicated a narrow grassy path with his staff. "Now hang on a moment and let me put this thing away."

Moody put down his Dark Detector, reached into his coat and took out a wooden trunk so tiny it fit snugly into his palm. He tossed it onto the grass before him. Even before it hit the ground, the trunk swelled to fifty times its original size, landing with a heavy _thump_. It looked exceptionally strong—its edges were lined with bolted steel and the lid had been fitted with seven different keyholes. Harry recognized it as the same chest he saw in Moody's office. An image raced back to mind—that of Moody, Stunned and deathly pale, a prisoner in the trunk's seventh compartment.

"Like it, do you?" Moody asked, noticing Harry's interest. "It's my war trunk. Built it myself about a decade back." The words would've carried a hint of pride, but Moody's expression was dour. Perhaps, thought Harry, he'd been thinking the same thing I was. 

"I keep everything I need in here," Moody went on, "Dark Detectors go into the first compartment." He spoke in a low, commanding voice. "_One._"

The lid sprang open, revealing more devices inside. As with most magical containers Harry had seen, the inside of the trunk was more spacious than the box's dimensions allowed for. 

Moody limped over, gently lowered his Dark Detector into a space reserved for it, and secured it with leather straps. He closed the lid and said, "In the second compartment I keep stuff I need when I'm traveling." He spoke again in a stern tone, "_Two_."

The lid opened once more, revealing, among other things, a rolled-up sleeping bag, several pots and pans, and half a dozen flasks of water. It looked like soldier's survival kit. 

Moody reached down and started rummaging through the contents. "Here we are," he said, pulling out a large metal disc. 

Harry stared at it. "Is that a shield?" 

"Yeah," Moody replied, "got it from a German friend." He pointed to the grassy path again. "We've to walk a bit further that way. Road's uneven, so this leg of mine's apt to slow us down. You won't mind if I rode, will you?"

"Er, no, I guess," said Harry.

"Good." Moody tossed the shield onto the ground. With a muttered word he shrunk the chest back down to its original size and tucked it into his coat. "All right," he said, "let's get going." He hobbled onto the shield. It then rose a foot off the ground and began drifting forward as easily as a leaf on a river.

"Well?" Moody said, looking back at the bewildered Harry. "We haven't all day." 

Harry mentally shook himself and followed Moody down the road, which meandered its way into the forest. 

After many hours sitting in a cramped carriage, Harry found the stroll enjoyable. The breeze was light and cool against his cheek. Autumn had come here like a passing parade; every tree was aflame with auburn and gold, and a crunching, multi-colored carpet covered their way through the forest. Squirrels scampered up on the high branches, gazing curiously down at the intruders. Barely just visible through the canopy of leaves, an arrowhead of ducks steadily pointed south. 

After a few minutes of walking, they came upon a crude wooden sign pounded into the grass. It read:

  


_If you can read this,_

_YOU'RE TRESSPASSING! GET LOST!_

_By order of_

_THE CARACAL_

Beneath the name was a crude painting of a skull rudely sticking out a tongue. Instead of crossbones, behind the skull were a pair of black and white wands.

Harry stared as they passed it, then asked, "Do you know him?"

Moody turned both eyes on him.

"I...I was asking if you know him. Daniel, that is."

"What's it to you?"

"Well…" Harry paused, a bit miffed at the rudeness. He was entrusting his life to these two men, so he had to know more about them, even just a little.

"I'm curious, that's all," he said instead.

Moody grunted and faced forward. "Yeah, I know him, though I bloody wish I didn't."

Harry blinked. "Oh." He thought for a moment, then asked, "Is he a member of, um…you know."

"What?"

"The Order of…"

"Hush, boy!" Moody hissed, whirling about. "Don't you talk so openly about it. Best you keep your mind on more important matters." He turned back, then muttered over his shoulder, "Mind you, he has absolutely no part of it. We're not that desperate for members." 

Further on was a clearing and another sign. This time Harry had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. It read:

_GO AWAY! DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU!_

_And that goes double for smelly old bats_

_who__ have cue balls for eyes_

"Buffoon," Moody grunted as he swept past the sign. 

"Why does he live out here instead of in town?" asked Harry.

"Because he's hiding from the Ministry!" Moody growled. "As he very well should be!" 

"Hiding? What's he in hiding for?"

"He's a law-breaker, that's why! There, I won't sugarcoat it. If the Ministry finds out he owns a wand, there'll be in a whole mess of trouble! I should have had my head checked for agreeing to do this! Not worth all this—even if he _is_ a Duomancer!"

"A what?" asked Harry, but the old man did not reply. He was looking up the low hill before them, at the top of which was another sign. It read:

_Well, since you're so eager to see me— _

_EGGS for __Sale__,_

_ 3 Knuts each_

_30 Knuts a dozen_

From the hill the road meandered to small wooden house at the edge of the clearing. 

"Well, here we are," said Moody as he dismounted from his shield. As he took out his trunk again to put the shield away, he paused and said, "One thing, before we go talk to him."

"What is it?"

Moody kept his eyes steadily on the cottage. His voice was oddly low. "…Don't ever mention Hogwarts to him. If the topic comes up, feign disinterest."

"Why?"

Moody looked at him impatiently, as if the answer were obvious. "'Cause he doesn't want to hear about it." He finished packing, then turned back to him. 

"Don't tell him who you really are either. Let me do most of the talking. The less he knows about this mission, the less likely for him to screw things up!"  And he hobbled towards the shack. Completely bemused, Harry followed.

The shack looked haphazardly built, with wooden boards criss-crossing themselves on the roof and a few more lashed to the walls for good measure. Harry couldn't tell for sure, but the house even seemed to be tilting to one side. Surrounding it was a wooden fence covered from top to bottom by a wire mesh. Through the mesh Harry spied the white bodies of chickens, clucking and scratching the ground for food. In the middle of the fence, a small gate was latched shut. Beside the gate stood a tall pole. Harry looked up and saw several metal arrows racked up along its length, looking like many weather vanes strung together. The arrows were all blank, except for three. One had the word 'BUSINESS' written in bright yellow. Beneath that, another arrow read 'TROUBLE' in deep fiery letters. The very last arrow pole read 'MOODY' in large, letters of drab brown.

At the moment, all three arrows were pointing at them.

Moody looked up at the signs, then at the front door.

"Best get this over with then," he said, and shouted, "Danny! If you're in there, get on out here! You've someone to meet!"

The chickens scattered away from Moody, but nothing else moved. He drew a deep breath and boomed— 

"DANNY, GETCHER LAZY ARSE OUT OF BED THIS INSTANT! WE'VE GOT WORK TO DO, YOU MILKSOP!"

Harry stared at Moody in shock, but he had barely enough time to puzzle over this behavior when another voice erupted from the house— 

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING A MILKSOP, YOU ASININE OLD GOAT! I HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME—SHUT UP ALREADY!"

Harry's eyes darted to the shack's entrance as the door was thrown open, shaking the little house. "Well, this is really something!" the young man said, wiping his hands on a small towel as he stalked forward. "You were supposed to be coming _later this afternoon_. Change of plans, or are you making a hobby out of pissing people off?" 

He appeared to be in his early twenties, lanky and quite tall—his head had brushed the top of the doorframe as he walked through it. His corn-colored hair was spiky and a bit uneven, as if he had tried to cut it himself and didn't quite do a thorough job. Sharp eyebrows floated over his deep gray eyes. He wore an off-white shirt and a loose pair of brown trousers. There was still a bit of shaving cream on his left cheek.

Moody growled, "'It is best to always arrive prematurely so as not to be anticipated by the enemy'—one of the fundamentals of the Auror's Way."

The young man stopped at the gate, looking about ready to hurl the towel in Moody's face. "Oh, put a cork in it! You came early to get some breakfast, is all!"

"You'd think that now, wouldn't you," Moody retorted.

"Ah, excuse me," said Harry. 

Both pairs of eyes turned to him. Daniel gave a lopsided grin. "So, you're our precious cargo." He extended one large hand, which Harry reluctantly accepted. 

Moody sighed and said, "Robert, this is my godson Daniel. Danny, meet—"

"Robert," Harry finished for him, "Robert Jerome Smith. Nice to meet you." 

"Hey, great to meet you too," Danny vigorously shook hands, but his smile seemed to falter when his eyes fell upon the Gryffindor crest on Harry's robes.

Moody said to Harry, "Well, now that that's settled, let's go in and have some breakfast."

"Hold it!" cried Danny, scowling at the old man. "Thought you could pull a fast one, didn't you."

"If you got any more of that slop you're cooking, I suggest you share it," Moody replied. "There's a task that needs doing and we need to keep up our strength."

"Ah, yes, the fifth Article of the 'Auror's Way', isn't it? 'Never start on an empty stomach.'" Danny snorted and started back to his house.

"He's always like this," Moody explained as he ushered Harry through the gate. "Always. Pay no attention." Harry followed the young man towards the entrance, taking care not to step on anything unpleasant. The chickens ignored them and went about scrounging for food.

"If you don't mind my asking," Moody said from behind them, "what possessed you to start a poultry farm?"

"Well, I have to have some other form of financing," said Danny, running a hand through his hair. "I sell some eggs whenever I go to town. Just enough to keep me alive when the work's dry. Besides, my roommate likes 'em."

Moody's mouth fell open and his magical eye whizzed from side to side. "There's someone else here?" 

"Like I said, my roommate." Danny cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Oi! Napoleon! Come on out here for a minute! We've got guests!"

Moody grabbed his sleeve. "You numbskull!" he hissed. "Why didn't you tell me you weren't alone! This mission's supposed to be a blasted secret!"

"Don't worry about Nap, he's safe. Oi! Nap! Where are—"

"Shut up!" Moody said, angrily shaking him. "Send him away this instant! You—"

Harry gave a startled cry and leaped backwards as the patch of soil he had been standing on began to crumble beneath his feet. Moody instantly spun around, wand in hand. They all watched as a mound of soil began to rise from the ground.

"What is it?" asked Harry.

The mound stopped rising, and a twitching, whiskery snout poked out of the soil. It sniffed the air for a minute, then vanished. 

"Nap!" shouted Danny. "Get out here right now!"

The creature popped completely out of the hole, its shiny black eyes peering curiously up at Harry. 

"It's—a niffler?!" Harry stared down at the chubby little animal, which was wagging its tail so hard its entire backside swayed. As Harry bent down to look at it, the niffler suddenly pounced onto his arms. Harry stumbled backwards as it stuck its nose at his shiny watch.

"NAP!" roared Danny, grabbing the niffler and holding him at arm's length. "How many times have I told you NOT to dig around the house?! Shame on you! After all those lessons!" He began shaking the animal around like a cat punishing its kitten.

"Er, don't be too harsh on him," said Harry, brushing the soil from his robes.

Danny finished shaking Nap and set him down. The niffler walked around in circles for a minute, his little eyes boggling about.

"Sorry about that," Danny said to them. "He sometimes forgets his training when he's excited."

Moody put his wand away. "Where in the name of the godland did you get a niffler?"

"I made a wager with a goblin prospector who was in town last spring. He lost, of course, and took off before I came to collect. Left this little guy behind. So I took him instead."

"Well, it's against the law to own this critter!" said Moody. "They're very destructive to property!"

"Whose property, aside from mine? I live in the bloody forest! Besides which, I've trained him out of digging near my home." Danny grinned at Harry. "'Course, I had to rebuild my house three times in the process, but I did it!"

Nap had stopped circling about and was sniffing at Moody's shoes. Not finding anything shiny on him, he padded over to Harry again. As Harry bent down for a closer look, Nap immediately stuck his snout at his wristwatch.

"Guess he likes you," said Danny. "But then, he likes everybody. Makes a very poor watchdog, he does. Anyway, come on in. Guess I'll just have to make breakfast for four."

Harry and Moody followed him into the house, but then he bustled back outside and grabbed Nap, who was about to waddle in.

"NOT you. Not until you cover up that mess you made in our yard and pour the hens some water. Otherwise, no breakfast."

The niffler looked up at him, blinking its dark, wide eyes.

"Forget it, Nap. That won't save you this time."

Nap's ears drooped as Danny set him down. He waddled back into the yard.

Inside, Danny made them sit down while he finished shaving. Harry and Moody each took a seat at the table, which was so small Harry could reach each side without stretching. 

Harry studied his surroundings. Danny's home was cramped with bric-a-brac and looked more like a curiosity shop than a house. The sweet scent of pine cones (several were strung up on a nearby clothesline) filled the air. To their left, directly beside a window, a slab of wood (which apparently had been a table once) hung a foot from the floor, neatly suspended from the ceiling by four stout ropes. On it was a single lumpy mattress and two feather cushions. Near this improvised bed were several stacks of magical tomes—_Famous Wizard Duels And Those Who Survived Them by Justa Hasbin. _Dodging Curses is Easy _by R. Yewdaff. __Stay Alert! by Justin Case. There were more titles stacked on the shelves.__ Warringden's Art of Wand Shielding.__ A Child's Guide to the Undead. The Wandering Swordsman. Into the West.  _

The place didn't lack for magical items one would expect to see in a wizarding home, but oddly enough there were also Muggle tools scattered throughout the house. A fat metal stove sat in the furthest corner, its slender pipe rising up to a hole in the ceiling. An assortment of cooking utensils lay on the tiny kitchen counter, including a small white egg timer. A wind-up alarm clock sat on the desk next to the bed, and through the window Harry could see a hatchet hacked onto a low tree stump.

Moody was looking about as well. "This is it? All those letters with you bragging about your own place, it was all just one room?"

Danny carefully scraped a safety razor across his chin, gazing into a mirror. "I'll have you know that while this place is small, it's very space-efficient. Right now, you're sitting in the dining room. When we're through with breakfast, it'll be the living room. At night it can be a guest chamber."

"If you say this doubles as the loo, I'll be staying somewhere else."

"No, the loo would be anywhere as long as it's forty yards from here." Danny wiped off the last of the cream on his face and washed his hand from a bucket. "There, all done!" He hurried over to a cabinet and began rooting about. "Where's that pan? Ah…" He stomped on the floor and a frying pan hurtled into the air. Danny caught it easily and set it down on the stove.

Within minutes, he had a kettle whistling and a pan crackling with oil. Harry had forgotten how hungry he'd gotten. He straightened up in his chair as Danny turned around, steel plate in hand.

"Here we go," he said, plunking it down on the table. Moody simply stared at it. 

"What's this?" he asked.

"It's an egg," replied Danny. "Specifically, a fried one."

"I know that! All you got's eggs? What about bread? Cereal? _Meat?"_

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir, the buffet table just closed." Daniel turned to Harry. "How would you like your eggs? Fried? Scrambled? Soft or hard-boiled? I do all kinds."

"Fried would be just fine," Harry replied.

Mood was still scowling. "You're telling me you can't spare a chicken or two from the dozens you have, just for a decent meal?"

"That is precisely what I'm telling you," Danny replied. "I DO NOT eat my business partners. Now, are you going to tell me how you like your eggs or shall I give them to you _raw_?"

"Scrambled," grumbled Moody. "And get me three."

"That's better." And Danny turned back to the stove and resumed cooking. 

"Stingy whelp," muttered the old man. "Hasn't changed a bit, I see."

Just then, a chorus of clucking was heard from outside. Harry turned just in time to see a flock of chickens run past the window, with Nap closing in from behind. 

Daniel served them their eggs and included a pot of piping hot coffee. Then he asked, "Since we'll be leaving in a few hours, why don't you tell me what we'll be doing for the next two weeks?"

Moody swallowed a piece of egg and said, "How much did Dumbledore tell you?"

"Only that I'll be acting as bodyguard for someone pretty important, and that we'll be going up north to a little Muggle town called Hillsdale. He had me check the place out and manually set the Portkey he provided. It's waiting for us right outside."

"What's the place like?" 

Daniel slowly put his mug down. "I think you'd better take a look at it."

"What? Trouble?"

"Maybe. At least, there _had_ been trouble. Like I said, you'd better take a look. That's your department after all, not mine.  What I want to know is, what'll _you_ be doing?" He asked, turning to Harry. "You don't seem the type to take a vacation there."

Moody said, "Robert here will be looking for something—"

"Why don't you eat for a while and let _him do the talking."_

"It's true," said Harry, straightening up. "I _am going there to look for something." He pushed his plate aside. Being here had been, well, interesting, but did not want to linger. He had a long road ahead of him. "I'm looking for a jewel that belonged to my family. It's hidden in that town, and it's really important that I find it."_

"Going treasure hunting, ay?" Daniel grinned and took a sip of coffee. "Sounds like a good time."

"We'll be working, Danny, not going sightseeing," Moody growled. "So you better keep—"

"Constant vigilance, yeah, I know. I already have a subscription, thanks." 

Moody glared at him. "'Course you do, seeing how well prepared you were to receive visitors in the morning!"

Daniel slammed his mug down onto the table. "What I didn't expect was a visitor who expected to be treated like royalty!"

"Hah! You can hardly afford a peasant's pittance, since you're unemployed!"

"I _do_ have a job!"

"Ah yes, the local egg salesman!"

"So, what is it you really do?" Harry asked, hoping to prevent another argument.

"Me?" Danny drew himself up proudly. "I'm what you call a professional solver of people's problems."

"Ah, I see," Moody cut in. "A hired thug, a hooligan, a stooge, a—"

"Private detective!" Danny retorted. "And I don't remember asking for your opinion!" 

And they carried on and on. At some point, dawned on Harry that the rudeness and arguments between these two were more the rule rather than the exception. And that the most prudent thing was to not get caught in between.

A distraction came some minutes later as Nap, having finally finished herding the chickens, shuffled through the open door. He hefted himself onto the last empty chair, set his paws on the table, and wagged his tail expectantly.

"You let him eat in here?" Moody asked, eyeing him.

"Why not?" said Danny, all smiles again. "He's got better table manners than mostpeople." He put a saucer with three poached eggs in front of Nap and gave him a pat on the head. "He only eats poached," he explained to Harry.

"Never mind," said Moody. "There's still one thing I'd like to know. How did Dumbledore convince you to help out?"

Daniel wiped his mouth and leaned back on his chair. "Oh, he didn't quite convince me the first time. When he asked me, I said I was busy at the moment and that I'd think about it. He was persistent, so I said I'd consider it if he sweetened the deal."

Moody's eyes bulged at these words. "You're not saying…?"

Harry needed no further clue to figure out what was coming. He slipped out of his chair and slowly made for the door.

Danny was saying, "'How much?' he asked me. So I said, since I liked him, I'd give him twenty-percent off from the going rate."

"You peddled your skills...you asked the greatest wizard of our age..._for money_?" 

Harry eased the door open and let himself out. He was about to close it when he heard a faint scratching noise. Looking down, he saw Nap looking up at him with his meal in his mouth. In perfect understanding, Harry stepped aside to let the niffler out with him.

"...And it all came down to bodyguard duty for only 300 Galleons. Not a bad deal, ay?"

"_Threehundred_—_!" Moody's face had gone an explosive red, his lips forming so many invectives he appeared to be choking on them._

Daniel looked at him quizzically. "You reckon I should've upped the discount?"

By then, Harry had shut the door and heard nothing more.

Harry leaned on the fence surrounding the little shack, looking out into the surrounding forest. Before that he had been watching Nap finish his eggs, but moments after doing so the little animal curled up onto the grass and fell asleep.

It was half an hour later when Moody lurched out of the shack. "I'll be checking out the surrounding area," he said to Harry. "Get some sleep if you like, but don't you go wandering about. We're by no means safe here." 

"All right," said Harry.

With a curt nod, Moody hobbled to the front gate and walked towards the forest. A minute later, the door opened and this time Daniel stepped out.

"I thought he'd never shut up," he said, grinning at Harry. "Some piece of work, isn't he? I thought it a joke when they said he was going to retire. He's _never_ going to retire, the way he's so wound up all the time."

He strode up to the henhouse and opened the tiny screen door to free his chickens. "Right. Robert, do me a favor and knock over that sack of chicken feed next to you."

Harry turned to look at the tied sack lying against the fence post. "Just overturn it?"

"Yeah. Make sure it spills." Danny knocked over a sack and chicken feed came tumbling out. The chickens immediately flocked over and started pecking away. Mentally shrugging, Harry untied the sack and pushed it over, spilling its contents.

"There," said Daniel, "that'll keep them till I get back." 

They were silent for a time as Daniel straightened up his lawn, until Harry thought of something to say. "So, why do you live out here?"

Daniel shooed the lone rooster off the roof of the coop, and said, "Many reasons. I like it here, for one. Well, that might be the whole reason. Sometimes living with people can be such a pain, you know? Out here you don't have any of them; no nosy neighbors, no bloody salesmen to bother you in the mornings, no nosy git to give you unwanted advice about your own business. I've got my own job and my own house. I've always wanted to live like this...Oh, for the love of...!" Daniel glared upwards.

Harry followed his gaze in alarm. "What? What is it?"

One of the arrows now had the word 'Weasel' written in bold, red letters, and was pointing to their left. In one swift motion, Daniel drew his wand from his belt and fired a curse at the grass outside his lawn. The shot rang throughout the forest. Something long, brown, and apparently with its tail on fire, darted out of the grass and into the safety of the trees.

"Damn weasel never lets up on my chickens," said Daniel, "Maybe that'll convince him to go into early hibernation. I'll have Nap keep an eye out once we're gone."

"How did you do that?" Harry asked, amazed.

"Do what?" Daniel said, sheathing his wand.

"Cast a curse without saying anything?"

"Oh. Never heard of 'mindcasting', Robert?"

"'Mindcasting?'"

"A wizard can mindcast a spell he's already an expert in using—all he has to do is say the words in his head while executing the wand motions. Of course, that takes years of practice. Haven't you seen a really good wizard move stuff around with just his wand? I bet Dumbledore does that a lot."

Harry recalled the time Dumbledore moved aside the tables of the Great Hall with a simple wave of his wand. "Yeah, now that you mention it, I have seen him do it."

"It's quite a status symbol, knowing how to mindcast spells. Plus, one can cast a lot faster that way. A proper dualist should know how to mindcast at least five spells, including the Wandshield. Grand Duelists—the kind that make the history books—they know at least twenty. I know ten myself."

"You must do a lot of dueling in your line of work, then."

"A 'lot'of dueling?" Daniel laughed as he leaned against his fence. "All the time, Robert, all the time. But I'm all right with that, because dueling's my life. That's what I was born to do. It's probably the only thing Moody and I have in common:  we love to fight."

"He called you something, while we were on the road here..."

"Moody calls me enough names to fill the devil's dictionary."

"I didn't mean it like that. He called you a Duomancer."

"Ohhhhh, yeah, that's right." Noticing Harry's bemused expression, he said, "What, never heard of them? Well, let me show you. You're right-handed, right? Take out your wand and cast any spell with it using your left hand."

            Curious, Harry took out his wand and changed grips. It was something he'd never tried before. He was about to cast a spell when Daniel quickly added, "Pick something simple. It's safer that way."

            Harry nodded and pointed his wand at nearby twig. He hesitated. It suddenly felt awkward; the wand felt heavier, unsteady. Nonetheless, he gave it a try.

_            "Accio twig!" _

            To his surprise, the twig only quivered a little, then lay still. Daniel said, "Lucky enough. At least it didn't explode." With his left hand he drew the wand from his belt and pointed. "_Accio__ twig." It shot up from the ground into his open palm._

            Harry put his arm down. "Why can't I do it? Why can't I use _this_ hand?"

            "You were born right-handed, that's why. Your right arm's your wand arm—that's where the magic flows. Casting spells with your dumb hand is as hard as writing with it."

            "But I can train to use my left, can't I? Right-handed people can learn to write with their left." 

            "So I've heard. You can, but it's tricky, and I hear the results aren't anything to crow about even after years of practice." He twirled the twig in between his fingers, then let it drop. "And even if someone does get it right, there's still one thing he can't possibly do."

            "What's that?"

            Daniel smiled. "Lend me your wand for a bit."

            Reluctantly, Harry handed it to him. Daniel received it with one hand, drew his own with the other, and turned to a boulder some distance away from the fence. "Stand back," he said.

            "What're you going to do?" asked Harry.

            Daniel answered the question quickly enough. Pointing both wands at the rock, he shouted, "_Diffindo_!_"_

            Twin bolts of serrated lightning shot out of the wands and struck the boulder with a loud report. Harry immediately covered his face with his cloak. When he looked out again, the rock had burst into twenty smoking pieces. 

            "That's...that's amazing!" he said. 

"The same spell at the same time, with a wand in each hand," Daniel tossed Harry's wand back to him and sheathed his own. "Comes in real handy in duels. Some wizards, you know, aren't very cooperative when you ask for information. Sometimes they get a bit difficult. Fortunately, most don't know how to block two spells at once.

            "By the way—I'd like ask you something, Robert, if you don't mind."

"Yes?"

"Why do you reckon this trip may be dangerous? I mean, Dumbledore's stressed that this has to be a secret. I don't question his reasons for helping you; he's just being his old charitable self, I'm sure. But why did he call on Moody to go with you? Granted he's a beaten old horse, he's still a cut above those flatfoots from the Ministry. So this has to be something serious. Care to fill me in, then?"

Harry stared at him for a minute. Part of him did want to tell Daniel who he was and what was going on—after all, they _were going to be working together for two weeks. But a significant part of him, the part of him that was tired of being the celebrity people gawked and whispered about, wanted to keep silent. Daniel had been open and friendly and treated him just like any other person, something Harry appreciated. He did not want that to change. He had this opportunity to be someone else; shouldn't he play the part to the hilt? Besides, Moody had warned him not reveal his identity to Daniel. _

So he said, "It..it's a bit hard to talk about, really…"

"Try me."

"My Mum and Dad had this long-standing feud with a…a distant relative. He's an evil wizard, and he wanted something from them—maybe their money, or to get revenge, I'm not sure. Nobody could seem to do anything about him, however. He has it out for me too. And I think if he finds out I'm off to get my grandmother's jewel, he might try to stop me, or get the jewel for himself."

"What d'you need this jewel for?"

Harry thought fast. "Dumbledore said it has some magical properties. My Mum had talked to him about it once. He says it might be able to protect me, that it had charms that were attuned to my bloodline, so it would keep me safe from harm."

Daniel nodded, brows furrowed. Then he said, "You mention your parents in the past tense."

Harry turned his eyes away and didn't answer.

Daniel went on, "Does Moody know about them? Your folks?"

Harry shook his head.

"Yeah, okay." Daniel turned away, as if to look at something interesting on the wall of his house. "So, you're an orphan."

"…Yeah."

The other boy was silent for some time. Harry thought he lost interest, but then he turned around and smiled. "Don't worry. We'll keep this between us, all right?"

Harry returned the smile, though his was smaller and more subdued. "Right. Thanks, Daniel."

"Call me Danny."

"Danny. Okay, thanks."

Danny slapped his shoulder. "Well, why don't you go back inside and take a nap. When you wake up, look in the drawer beside the bed. You'll find some Muggle clothing there. Useful for disguises. Try some on and see what fits you."

"I will. Thanks again."

"We're leaving at three o'clock—don't forget." Danny opened his gate and strode out. Curious, Harry called after him. "Where are you going?"

"Out for some target practice! See you later!" He drew out his wand and hurled it high into the air as he walked. The shiny black rod spun rapidly as it rose and plummeted, but Daniel caught it behind his back without so much as a glance. 

Inside, Harry washed up at the tiny sink and climbed onto the suspended bed, which he found to be more comfortable than it looked. Sleep came, but did not stay. He woke an hour later from dreams of floating dandelions and a sweet, familiar warmth in his hand. Outside he heard the distant noise of raised voices. As lunch was in doubt, he got up and reached for the cheese sandwich in his bag. After this simple meal he went back to sleep. He woke up again an hour later, sweating, scar itching and that faint _click-click_ of something that had been seemingly close by. There was nothing there. After this he simply laid back, fingers laced behind his head, eyes on the ceiling. 

Finally, at around two o'clock, he gave up trying to rest and got out of bed. He opened the first drawer of the cabinet nearby and found the clothes Danny mentioned. It took some time for him to figure out what to wear; it looked as if Danny had gone into a yard sale and picked out whatever caught his eye, regardless of appropriateness. Harry had to wade through several slacks, flannel sweatshirts, corduroy overalls, dozens of mismatched socks and other articles before settling for a plain purple shirt and a denim jacket and jeans. He neatly folded his Hogwarts robes and, after hesitating a bit, put it in the bottom drawer. 

He glanced at his own hand as he drew back, and became absorbed by the sight of it. His disguise had given him a completely different one—the skin was tan, the nails a deeper shade of pink, and there appeared to be more wrinkles on the knuckles. He flexed his fingers, deeply aware of stretching skin and muscle.

'Here I am,' thought Harry, looking again at the Gryffindor crest, then back to his open hand. 'Here I am, now, by my own choice.'

For the first time, he allowed himself to think about turning back. There were other ways to go, weren't there? Who would blame him if turned around right now and went back to Hogwarts? Who would want him to risk his life out there? Sirius, Remus, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, they'd all be happy to see him return...

These were all, of course, wistful, useless thoughts. They passed through his mind like the dandelions of his dreams and were soon gone. 

_You can't turn back, said a voice he had heard so often, in the darkest part of the night._

_You can't turn back. You wanted to be here, didn't you? For a whole year you felt as if you were only half-alive, waiting until the waiting was almost a burning thirst in you. For a whole year you watched Voldemort torture and kill at his leisure, knowing that he had you, your stupidity, your naiveté, to thank for his return to the world. For a whole year you'd lay your head on your pillow wondering if the nightmares would come for you again, and when they did you'd wake up, angry and afraid and crying and needing to do something—anything at all—to stop to him._

_So don't try to fool yourself. You want to do this. Go on. Strike a blow against the Dark Mark. Turn the tables on the Dark Lord. If you make it, Voldemort will never know what hit him. _

_Then you will have peace._

'Yes, that's why I'm doing this. For peace.'

"Goodbye for now," he whispered as he looked at the Gryffindor crest. Then he slid the drawer shut.

Danny came in as Harry finished making the bed. "All right, Robert? Go on ahead outside. I'll be with you in a bit."

Harry found Moody standing by the gate, pipe in hand. He was already dressed in Muggle clothing—a heavy brown overcoat, dark shirt and pants, and a large leather belt. He had somehow been able to fit a heavy boot over his clawed peg-leg, and it looked almost normal. He looked Harry over, and nodded in approval.

"Now if we can get just going already," he muttered, tapping ashes from the pipe. "Time's a-wastin'." 

Danny came out fifteen minutes later, dressed in a deep blue jacket and pants and a black and white striped scarf so long it stretched down to his knees. Slung over one shoulder was a crimson backpack. As he walked toward them, he was carefully adjusting the leather straps what resembled a Quidditch gauntlet around his left forearm. But before Harry could get a closer look, he pulled his jacket sleeve to cover it up.

At the gate, Danny picked up Nap, who was waiting for him by the footpath.

"Take care of yourself, Nap," he said. "I'll be gone for only two weeks, but I left enough food for you in the pantry. 

"And I want you to behave! If I come back here and the house is leveled, you'll be really sorry, understand?"

The niffler licked Danny's cheek and gave low whine, as if to show how sorry he was to see the boy go. Danny ruffled his fur a bit longer, then set him down and approached Moody and Harry.

 "We look like we're about to go to a costume party," said Danny, frowning.

"If it helps any," the old man replied, "I'll try not to be seen with you." 

"Where's the Portkey?" asked Harry.

Danny opened the gate and stepped out. "This way." 

They followed him around to the back of the house, where they stopped in front of the tree stump. 

"Well, here it is," said Danny. He was looking down at the hatchet.

Moody scowled at it. "Couldn't you've picked something less obtrusive?"

"I'll take care of hiding it once we get across. Don't worry."

"Time-triggered, you say?"

"At precisely three o'clock, so get ready."

Harry checked his watch. It was 2:55. In less than five minutes, he realized, he was actually going through with it. His journey was really going to begin. 

A noise to his left made him turn his head. Nap, ears drooped and paws braced on the fence, stared at them forlornly. He gave another low whine. Harry waved goodbye.

They waited. The waiting seemed interminable. Harry felt his insides shrinking in nervous anticipation. They would be on their own now. He had no idea what the other side of this Portkey might hold for him. Only that he had to see it through to the end.

"We can take two of them, you know," Moody was saying as he eyed the lawn. "Keep 'em in the cold box of my trunk so the meat won't spoil."

"For the last time," snapped Danny, "we won't be taking any of the chickens! Deal with it!"

At 2:57, Danny reached out and touched the handle. Moody grasped the axe head in one wizened hand, and Harry held onto the middle. They were all quiet.

2:59. Danny looked about and said, "Well, shouldn't we say something?"

"Like what?" muttered Moody.

"Some kind of cheer, or affirmation? Famous last words perhaps?"

"Nothing comes to mind."

"Exactly what _would_ you say in a time like this?" asked Harry.

"I don't know. Something about team work, or a wish for luck or something. We are a team now, after all. Anything's better than keeping our mouths shut. Well, Moody?"

"I can think of better things to do than flapping our gums," said Moody.

"I bet you could," replied Danny, "like stuff yourself, for instance." He turned to Harry. "How about you, Robert?"

Harry stared at the hatchet and thought of the journey ahead. "Here I am," he said. "Here I go."

And before anyone could say anything else, Harry felt a familiar sharp tug somewhere around his navel, followed by the feeling of being yanked through the air, and Danny's yard vanished.

_To be continued_

_            Chapter VIII : __He knelt and put his hand on the stone, tracing each carefully cut letter…They were close, so close. Could they possibly find the __Crystal__ right now, and end this quest just as quickly as they had begun it? Was it possible that in a day's time he would be standing in __Gryffindor__Tower__ again?_


	8. The Broken Angels

**The ****Phoenix**** and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter VIII: The Broken Angels**

He leaned towards the mirror and whispered, "Harry James Potter."

Again that tingling sensation, as if someone had drawn a feather over his skin. The image before him swam and shifted; his auburn hair turned dark once more, his blue eyes shimmered to green, and the lightning scar traced down the side of his forehead. He was Harry Potter again, at least for a few moments.

Harry was not fond of disobeying Dumbledore, but he had already spent four whole days in disguise. It felt too odd to wear a strange face, while staying in a strange town, in the company of strange men. Perhaps some part of him wanted to make sure he could still be himself after all this time.

But now he was beginning to regret looking at all. As Harry Potter he could belong nowhere else but in Hogwarts. He could not escape thinking about his true home, and what could be happening there now if he were not here at the Everglade Inn, Hillsdale, Who-Knows-Where-In-Britain. Could not help wondering if anyone had noticed any changes. If Ron and Hermione were doing all right. If they were keeping the homunculus out of trouble.

If Ginny still thought of him sometimes.

He pushed that last thought away to the corner of his mind. It would be back again later, as usual. But for now, he had things to do.

Harry turned away from the mirror and started to change out of his pajamas. Their mission today was simple: he and Danny had to look for information in the local archives, located near the town center. It hadn't been necessary to do this, but unforeseen complications, as he had discovered yesterday, could pile up very quickly.

* * *

The Portkey took them to a little meadow surrounded by a thin copse of trees, and Harry quickly noticed how much different this place was from the forest Danny where lived. No ducks flew across the sky, no animals scurried among the branches overhead. The wind had long bent the trees into odd shapes, and the air around them was colder, closer to winter.

"Well, what're you waiting for?" Moody said to Danny. "Hide the Portkey and make sure it stays hidden."

"No problem," replied the young man. He then hefted the hatchet over his shoulder, took aim, and hurled it up at the tree. His aim had been perfect; the hatchet struck one of the higher branches. Unfortunately, his throw had also been too strong; instead of simply attaching to the wood, the axe lopped off the branch, falling directly onto Moody's foot. The old man yelled curses so loudly that Harry thought it likely that everyone within ten miles had been alerted to their presence.

After they all calmed down, Danny led them out of the forest and towards a nearby hill. Moody started giving instructions.

"You two'll be heading into town now. Don't do anything suspicious or call too much attention to yourselves. But keep your eyes open. I'll be camping out here in the outskirts of town. This mug of mine catches too much attention, especially among Muggles." Harry recalled Moody's first appearance in Hogwarts and had to agree.

"You'll be doing most of the legwork," Moody went on, "so find a place to stay, like an inn. I'll keep an eye on the surroundings. If you have anything to report, meet me at the meadow after sunset. If anything goes wrong or if you get into trouble, send a signal with your wand and I'll Apparate to where you are. Do this only during emergencies, mind."

They made it up the hill and Danny pointed to the town some distance away. "Well, there she is. Thing of beauty."

They all stared at it for some moments. The wind whispered to itself amongst the tall grass on the hill, and far above them, a crow gave a half-starved cry at an empty sky.

Moody asked, "It was like this when you got here?"

"Absolutely," Danny replied, "and I swear I am not responsible for whatever happened here."

"You meet anyone?"

"One or two old timers. Skittered away when they saw a stranger."

To Harry, the entire town seemed to be teetering on the brink of winter. The windows of every house were closed, every door shut and probably bolted. Harry counted less than a dozen chimneys that had a thin ribbon of smoke rising out of them. Even the trees had apparently long abandoned hope and left their branches barren. _This _was his mother's hometown?

"I've change my mind," Moody said. "I'm coming along to have a look around." He pulled something out of his pocket. Harry turned to see him putting a black patch over his magical eye.

"Let's get moving." Moody pulled the brim of his hat lower over his face and lurched forward, Danny and Harry close behind him.

Things did not improve as they entered the town. The only things they met as they walked down the main avenue were a cold wind and a bustling line of dead leaves. One would expect to see someone tending their garden, or jogging down the sidewalk, or heading to market, but they saw not a soul. No children playing in the yard. No pets leashed to the porches.

More, it seemed as if the residents didn't _want _to come out. Broken fences were left untended, windows were dusty and unwashed. Many houses had chipped paint on their walls and loose shingles on their roof. Several houses, in fact, were vacant—boards were hammered onto the windows and doors and the front gates were under lock and chain.

Moody took out his small Foe-Glass and stared at it intently.

"Nothing," he muttered, "no sign of trouble at all."

_But where is everybody_? Harry wondered as he gazed up and down the street.

Danny soon led them to the town cemetery. It was located atop a flat hill, surrounded by a low stone wall with a rusty, unlocked gate. The churchyard itself looked a mess. Dried vines had overrun the tombs and grasses grew tall amongst the grey headstones and ornate crypts, turning the whole area into a papery brown jungle. To his right Harry saw something he found both comical and morbid: the white outstretched hand of a fallen statue poked out from a long tangle of vines, looking as if it were calling for help. Evidently the groundskeeper did not care at all about doing his job. If there was a groundskeeper, that is.

The three of them spent half an hour picking their way up and down the rows of tombstones, pulling aside grass and scraping off the moss and lichen that obscured the names.

"Place looks completely abandoned," said Moody, as he stared around with his magical eye. "For a year, maybe more."

"Moody," Danny called. "I think you better get a look at this."

Danny stood at the other side of the path, holding a clump of crushed vines in his hands and staring at the statue he had just uncovered. It was obviously that of an angel, its rain-stained wings folded behind its back and its weathered hands clasped together in prayer. It would have been serenely beautiful, except it had no head.

"What's this?" breathed Moody. He poked his staff on the grass next to the tomb and pushed some bits of stone—all that was left of the angel's head—onto the gravel path.

"There's more." Danny sidestepped to a nearby grave and yanked the vines off the angel above it. It, too, was missing its head. The statue beside it was similarly disfigured. As was the next. And the next.

"Someone's desecrated this place," whispered Harry. He didn't know why he whispered; he surely didn't mean to, but raising his voice in a place like this made him uncomfortable. He pushed away some grass near his feet and uncovered a stone cross lying on its side, broken into three pieces. A sudden chill crept into his skin. "Who'd do such a thing?"

Moody's eye whipped watchfully from one spot to another. After a time, he said, "We'll investigate that later. Right now, let's find what we're looking for. Stay close to me."

Trying to ignore the broken sculptures around them, they kept on searching the gravestones. Some of the inscriptions were more than a hundred years old, faded almost to nothing by constant weathering. Harry wondered if they would even find what they were looking for underneath this mess.

But they did. His grandmother's grave stood at the very center of one of the rows, hard to miss as it was strangely cleaner than most of its neighbors. To Harry's relief, no statue stood guard over it. Etched on the stone were these words:

_Leah Wellington Evans_

_1925 – 1986_

_May she rest eternally_

_in the gardens of Paradise_

They all stared down at it for a moment. Danny said, "So you reckon what you're looking for's in there?"

"That's what Dumbledore said," Harry replied. For a while now since they entered the churchyard, he had felt as if a little bird was hopping nervously about in his chest. Now it was frantically beating its wings against his ribcage. They were close, so close. Could they possibly find the Crystal right now, and end this quest just as quickly as they had begun it? Was it possible that in a day's time he would be standing in Gryffindor Tower again?

He knelt and put his hand on the stone, tracing each carefully cut letter. He wondered what sort of person she had been. And how she would have thought of him if they had ever met, if she would have doted on him the way he had often seen elderly people spoil their grandchildren.

Already, he was shrinking from the thought of robbing his grandmother's grave, especially of the thing she loved so much she had tried to take it with her. For a moment, he imagined her vengeful spirit swooping down from heaven to throttle her ungrateful grandson.

"Okay," said Danny slowly, "You want to start digging now or do we wait for sundown?"

"I don't know," Harry said. "This would be easier if only Nap were with us."

"Forget it! I'm not involving Nap in any sort of grave-robbery! We're in enough trouble as it is."

Harry shrugged. "I don't suppose any of you know any digging spells?"

No one answered. Finally, Danny sighed and said, "I'll go look for some shovels."

"Don't bother," Moody muttered

Danny turned to look at him. "What?"

"I said don't bother. We won't have to dig for anything." Moody's words were for Danny, but his gaze had been turned to Harry.

"It's not there."

* * *

The sound of footsteps near the door startled Harry out of his reverie. He quickly whispered, "Robert Jerome Smith." His appearance changed even as he turned on his heel to face the entrance.

The door cracked open and Danny popped his head in. The elder boy never bothered to knock; his tramping footsteps worked just as well.

"Hullo," he said, "anything exciting happen while I was away?"

"Nothing at all," said Harry, returning his smile. "It's been pretty quiet."

"Well, don't get too complacent. Remember: _constant vigilance!" _He wagged a warning finger. "By the way, I'm ravenous. You ready for some breakfast, Robbie?"

"Sure." 'That name takes a little getting used to,' thought Harry.

They took breakfast quickly, then strolled out of the Everglade Inn into the deserted, wind-swept streets of Hillsdale. When they had left the graveyard the day before, Moody had given Danny strict instructions not to let Harry out of his sight. The elder boy, however, was not the type to stay in one place for long. Whenever they weren't with Moody, Danny was usually off somewhere, examining pictures on the walls, opening locked doors and poking around in the other rooms. Mr. Morrow, the old, long-faced innkeeper, never knew a thing of course. But even if he did, Harry thought he would not have done much protesting. One thing Harry had found out about Danny, he was the kind of person people had a hard time saying no to. The night they had arrived at the inn (a large, ornate place two blocks away from the cemetery) Mr. Morrow had met them at the door and said, with much apologies, that he could not accommodate guests that night.

"Hold on now," Danny had said, "before we knocked I looked up at your second floor and didn't see a single lit window. Which means you've got at least one vacant room, right?"

"Sir," Mr. Morrow had replied, fidgeting, "I regret to say that my inn has recently shut down. I've not seen guests in nearly a year."

"Then you should re-open, don't you think, now that two have turned up on your doorstep?"

"But sir...I'm truly sorry, but it's just not possible. You simply cannot stay..."

"What? An inn that turns down paying customers? Completely unheard of!"

The innkeeper was perhaps thrice as old as Danny, but he had flushed at these words like a schoolboy caught without his homework. Harry had thought of staying elsewhere, maybe even camping out on the outskirts of town, but Danny said, "What's your name, sir?"

"...Morrow, Richard Morrow, sir."

"Good. Now Mr. Morrow, my name is Daniel Oaks and this is my assistant Robert. We are herbologists and are here on the behest of the Ministry of Agriculture to look for a suitable area to grow experimental fast-growing jungolubes." Danny had whipped out his wallet and flashed a strange-looking badge at Mr. Morrow's face. Before the elder man could take a good look, Danny had stuffed it back in his pocket. "You can aid us in this important and terribly stressful task by providing us lodging for, say, two weeks or less—depending on how fast we work—and of course you will be more than compensated for your troubles. Cash, up front. Plus the gratitude and commendation of the British government."

"Sir," the innkeeper had mumbled, "this town...this town is no place for visitors." His voiced had dropped even more as he added. "It's dangerous here, sir. Strange things have happened. I really think it best if you go to the next one—"

"That's simply not possible," Danny had replied. "It's night, the next town's miles away and our transportation will be back for us two weeks hence. Whatever danger it is you're talking about, you need not worry for our sakes. We do a good job taking care of ourselves. Now, why don't you show us in and we can talk about this 'danger' over a cup of hot tea while sitting near a good-sized fire."

Mr. Morrow looked right about out of protests. "I really cannot...I have no chambermaids...no room's ready...the sheets have not been turned..."

"Mr. Morrow, do we look like royalty? We work for the government. Whatever you have's got to be better than what we usually get." Harry had caught Danny's sidelong wink as he had handed their bags over to the bewildered man. "Besides, a dirty bed's a deal better than a dirty sidewalk, as my grandpa used to say. I assure you that my companion and I will require minimal assistance straightening up our own rooms."

Harry thought back on all this with a smile. He turned to Danny as they walked and asked him what in the world jungolubes were.

"Haven't the foggiest," chuckled Danny. "But if you can think of a better excuse for poking around town, I'd like to hear it."

"But how are we going to pay for our rooms?"

"No worries: I've got some Muggle pounds right here. I provide a supply of eggs for a local grocery back in Evensdale. The owner thinks I have a huge poultry business somewhere out of town. He doesn't know that they're from a dozen enchanted chickens!" Danny gave another laugh.

"You _enchanted_ your chickens?"

"Yeah. Makes them lay eggs twice as fast."

"Won't the Ministry—"

"They don't know a thing. And let's keep it that way, shall we?"

"All right," replied Harry, grinning. "But Moody probably doesn't like that at all, does he?"

"Are you kidding? He once threatened to turn me in, the old badger. Never did though. I dunno, he must've known what it's like to go hungry. See, even if I have a job as a private detective, I have to find a way to put food on the table when the workload's light." He gave a wide grin. "And Nap's a hungry bugger, let me tell you."

Harry laughed as he remembered the niffler. "Yeah, it must be tough living on your own. And I thought going through Hogwarts is hard enough for anyone."

Silence followed the remark. Harry gave his companion a sidelong glance and was surprised to see the humor drain out of Danny's grey eyes. He blinked, belatedly remembering Moody's warning not to mention Hogwarts to Danny. He was about to ask if there was something wrong when the other boy nodded at something directly ahead of them.

"I reckon that's the place we're looking for."

The archive stood by itself east of the town center. Compared to the others beside it, the building was squat and squalid, and had seemingly been closed for months. The two of them made their way up its stone steps to the entrance, it's wide double doors under lock and chain.

"Well," said Danny as he rubbed his hands, "breaking and entering, one of my favorite activities." He turned to Harry and said, "You want to do the honors, or shall I?"

"I can do it, thanks."

Harry pointed his wand at the lock and said, "_Alohamora_" It fell open and he caught it before it fell onto the ground.

Dead silence greeted their entrance into the archives. Harry looked around in despair. The archives looked small on the outside, but it actually housed twelve long bookshelves, each six levels tall. Cobwebs were strung between them like silken nets, swaying with the breeze blowing in from the smashed windows. A thick layer of dust covered the study tables. Hermione would throw a fit if she ever saw this place. Madam Pince would have a nervous breakdown.

"Your move, Robbie," Danny said, pinching his nose shut.

Harry sighed and said, "We can start by looking for compilations of the local newspaper. That way we can find out what happened here." He started rolling up his sleeves. "Let's get to work."

When they finally left the building, the dull orange sun had slid behind the darkening western hills. All around them, lampposts woke up blinking, barely discernable halos forming around their heads as a thin evening mist crept through the streets. They started back; Moody had instructed them to be at the inn before sunset.

It was just as well. The newspaper section had been almost completely destroyed by age and moisture, but what little information Harry had found was enough to chill his blood. He hoped his recent discoveries were worth the trouble. If it helped them find where the Crystal was…

Rubbing his eyes, he took the steps down to the main street of Hillsdale. Beside him, Danny stretched his arms over his head and yawned. "Let's not do that again, okay? If I had asthma I'd be dead by now—"

"Shhh!" Harry grabbed his shoulder, pointing at the bench across the street.

An old man slouched there, head bowed and chin touching his chest. By his uniform, badge and the tall oval hat beside him on the bench, Harry could tell he was one of the local policemen.

Danny eased his hand off of his wand. "Looks like he's asleep. Come on, we'd better make a break for it."

"No, just a minute," said Harry, and began descending the stairs.

"What're you doing? Hey— !" cried Danny, leaping down after him.

Harry crossed the street and approached the old man. He wish he'd thought of this before, asking a policeman.

"Sir?" he said. "Excuse me, sir?"

The policeman did not move at first, then he wearily opened his eyes and raised his head; it was devoid of hair, even of eyebrows. A befuddled expression crossed his face as he saw the Harry and Danny standing before him.

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir," Harry went on, "but we're visitors here and we need some help. We're doing some research for the Ministry and we would like to ask you a few ques—"

"This town is cursed," rasped the old man.

Harry blinked.

"What did you say?" asked Danny.

"Cursed," he repeated in that ancient, toneless drone. "You shouldn't be here. Finish your business and leave as soon as you can. I say this not for my sake but for yours—leave." With an effort, he got to his feet and put on his hat.

"What do you mean this place is cursed?" Harry asked. "What happened here?"

The old man would not look at them again. He had his hat low over his eyes. "Because we let him get away with it. We let him get away and she cursed us for it."

"_She?_"

His grey hands reached into his pocket and took out his wallet, and for one wild moment Harry thought he was going to bribe them to get out. But the old man only took out a tattered piece of folded paper and handed it to them.

"You must leave," the old man repeated. "As soon as you can." He turned and started walking away.

Danny watched him go. "I had a theory once," he said, "that only loonies choose to become cops. I think there's a book in here somewhere. Well, what's that he gave you?"

Harry unfolded the paper and read it silently. After a minute he said, "I think it's time we go see Mad-Eye about this."

* * *

While Harry and Danny took up residence in the Everglade, Moody set up camp in the abandoned house just across the street. He stayed on the second floor, in a room directly facing the inn. Harry supposed he slept during the day and kept watch on them at night. Doing so would not be a problem, given the power of Moody's eye.

They found him in his room, sitting on a stool with his pipe in hand and his Dark Detectors scattered around him like encircling wagons. "This isn't a camp," muttered Danny, "it's a bloody circus." They carefully picked their way through the devices, which spun and hummed and glowed at their feet.

Moody was listening to a radio beside him, but turned it off and got up as Harry and Danny approached. "Well," he said, "did you find anything in that rat-hole of a library?"

"We did," Danny replied, "but how'd you know it was a rat-hole?"

"I scouted the place out before you even woke up. Proper procedure." Moody picked up a bucket and held it up to Danny. "Now take this and get me some water from the inn. Faucets here don't work anymore."

Danny scowled at him. "Why didn't you get any yourself?"

"Because I'd give your innkeeper a bleeding heart attack—any more stupid questions?"

"I wasn't hired to be a serving boy," grumbled Danny, but he took the bucket and stalked out of the room.

"Have a seat, laddie," Moody said to Harry. "There's something I think you should hear. Didn't want that big lug around asking questions." As Harry sat on another stool, he saw that Moody hadn't even lit his pipe. There was a hiss of static as the old man twisted the dial of his radio, then the announcer's voice came on.

_"…details have been sparse as of now, but by all appearances some kind of a battle had been fought in the city of Portsmouth early this morning. Muggle citizens have reported hearing strange noises at around 6:00 AM and lasting for some forty minutes. To quote one Muggle woman—'we heard shouting, then loud explosions, and we saw some men dressed in black robes and hoods running down the street, and there were these terrible growling sounds, like we were surrounded by tigers or something, but we saw nothing at all.'"_

Harry felt his heart race at these words. His thoughts immediately turned to Sirius and Remus—were they both all right?

_"Even more disturbing reports state that members of Portsmouth's wizarding community—some one hundred civilians—seemed to have disappeared, including WWN's media people based there. The Ministry of Magic is not giving out details and denies that this is some sort of attack, but have appealed for calm and assured everyone that a Law Enforcement team has already been sent to Portsmouth to investigate this occurrence. In the meantime, we shall await further details—"_

Moody shut of the radio and faced Harry. The firelight drew odd shadows onto his mutilated face.

"The Ministry won't even be able to get _into_ Portsmouth. By now the Death Eaters would've blocked all attempts to enter through magical means. I've seen it before.

"The Order has an outpost guarding Portsmouth. About two dozen men, based in a small pub in the Southsea area. I knew them. Young, brave, battle-ready. Now I don't even know if any of them are still alive." He shook his head, grey hair falling over his eyes. "By the news I've heard, we lost. Badly."

"Was...was either Sirius or Remus..." Harry found he couldn't finish the question.

"Don't worry," said Moody, getting up. "They were stationed miles away from there. Up north. A place we call The Front."

Harry felt relief flood into him, but Moody began pacing about the room. "Dumbledore knew something like this would happen. Damn that Fudge! Couldn't find his own arse if he didn't have an aide pointing it out for him." He lit his pipe, fixed both his eyes on Harry. "This only means we've got to work faster. Well, what've you got? Anything on this mystery disease we heard about from your innkeeper?"

"I—Yes, I did," said Harry, pulling out his notes. "According to the records and newspaper clippings in the archive, the disease broke out in mid-June, 1994."

"Hrn. Any clue to what sort of sickness it was?"

"No one knows for sure," replied Harry as he checked another page. "It first came to the Hudson family—the youngest of three children caught it. At first the parents thought it was just hay fever, but as the week passed she became weaker and weaker until she finally died. Then the other two children caught it, and later Mr. and Mrs. Hudson as well.

"The entire family died weeks later, and when symptoms appeared on more residents, people panicked and called in a group of doctors from London. They couldn't agree on what the disease was—some said it was cholera, others tuberculosis. When one of them fell ill, they all fled back to the city, calling for a quarantine of the town.

"While that was happening, people were leaving Hillsdale in droves. Then they found something startling. Those who had gotten sick and left town for treatment recovered in just a few days. Only those who stayed worsened until they died."

Moody stopped walking, his forehead creased in concentration. "Only those who stayed?"

"Yes." Harry stared at Moody, hoping the old man would come up with a quick answer to the riddle. But after several moments the old man merely said, "Anything else?"

"Well...we met someone on the way back here, an elderly policeman. We found him sitting by himself on a park bench." He detailed the encounter to Moody, then reached into his pocket and handed over the piece of paper he had been given.

It was a newspaper clipping, tattered and yellow with age. Moody read it out loud.

* * *

**_Grave Robbery in Hillsdale_**

Residents walking to church yesterday morning were aghast to find the grave of Leah Wellington Evans completely unearthed and her coffin thrown open. This shocking display of barbarism has ignited a manhunt for the perpetrators of the crime.

"It was horrible, horrible!" wept Ms. Clarice Moulding, a family friend. "How could they, those monsters! It was all she had left after her husband passed on, and they had the gall, the audacity to steal it from her!"

Further investigation reveals what 'it' was: Mrs. Evans's ruby brooch, a family heirloom that had been dear to her in life. Mrs. Moulding, who had been a frequent visitor of the Evans household, is currently being questioned further on this matter.

Mrs. Evans's husband William passed away in 1980. Of three children, Petunia and Warren survives her. Lily, the youngest, died in 1981.

Inspectors say that "the marble headstone had been smashed, the dirt shoveled aside to expose the coffin, which was then forced open with a sharp implement. The perpetrators have not left physical evidence of themselves." Police are still combing the area for additional clues.

As if disturbing the dead and robbery were not enough, the criminals added insult to injury by committing unbridled acts of vandalism at the churchyard. Additional police reports state that the

* * *

Moody eyed the end of the article, which looked as if it had been gnawed on by rats. "Can you describe the man who gave this to you?" he asked. 

"He wasn't very tall," replied Harry, "about an inch shorter than me. He was bald, didn't even have eyebrows. And he looked pale and very drained, like he was…he was…"

"Waiting to die?"

Though taken aback by the expression, Harry nodded.

"Yeah, that's the feeling I got from the other residents here." Moody sat down on the stool again. Smoke fled from his nostrils. "I've been watching them all day today. Some just stand about looking like all the life's been sucked out of them." His real eye narrowed. "And they're all old folk, no young ones. Disease must've scared most everyone away, leaving only those who're brave, stupid or too old to leave."

"There's something else," said Harry, pointing at the article. "It's written on the back."

Moody turned it around in his hand. _The Hillsdale Gazette, June 12, 1994_, was scribbled on the other side.

"The grave was robbed in the middle of June," said Harry, "that was around the same time the disease broke out."

"You never heard about any of this while you were living with your aunt?"

"No. I don't think she kept contact with my grandmother. She never even mentioned her to me."

Moody eyed the article, quietly thinking, then said, "Let me keep this for now." He slipped it into his pocket.

Harry thought hard. Was this town really cursed? And if it was, was it the Evans's means of seeking revenge? But they were all Muggles except for my mother and she had died before all this had happened. My grandmother couldn't have done it by herself. But if not them, then who?

Moody puffed on his pipe for a while, then said, "Looks like our next lead's this Mrs. Moulding."

"Could she have done it?" asked Harry. "She knew what was in that grave in the first place…"

"It's possible, but not likely," replied Moody.

"Why not?"

"Because, lad, this isn't an ordinary case of thievery! Why go through all the trouble just to steal a piddling little brooch? And why just one grave? Why not search a few more for heftier scores? No, the thief knew what he was looking for. He wanted that particular brooch for a reason good enough to rob it from the dead. And that would be..."

"...He knew about the Crystal," finished Harry, his spirits plummeting even as he spoke. "It must've been a wizard, someone who knew the Crystal's powers!"

"That's likely," Moody agreed, "but why would he want it?"

"I don't know," said Harry. This time he got up to pace. "The Crystal can only work with someone from my bloodline, right? But Dumbledore said that the Evans were the last of Volarius's descendants. And Aunt Petunia said my Mum was the only witch in the family...unless..." He came to a halt. "Unless they were all wrong."

Moody raised a scraggy brow.

"What if there's another wizard from Volarius's line?" Harry whispered, realizing his worst fear. "And what if he's in league with Voldemort! Then...then...Voldemort's behind what's happened to this town. He might have the Crystal. He might be planning to use it on me!"

Moody pointed at Harry's forehead. "First of all, has your scar been hurting lately?"

Surprised, Harry touched his fingers to his scar. "No…it hasn't. Not since before we came here."

"You had any nightmares yet?"

Harry shook his head.

"That's our best indicator that the Dark Lord's not here," said Moody. "Second, my Dark Detectors have been getting nothing but static. Third, while we're not infallible, there've been no reports from the Order of any Death Eater activity around these parts. Fourth, the Crystal was stolen nearly two years ago. From what I've heard Voldemort couldn't even feed himself then, let alone dig up a grave and wreck a whole cemetery."

Harry thought it over, and it made sense. Maybe the Dark Lord wasn't on to them, at least not yet. "But if not Voldemort, then who?"

"That," said Moody, tapping the ashes from his pipe, "is what we've to find out.

"I'll need you to find out if our Mrs. Moulding's still lives here. Get her address, or get a clue where she went. Possibly you can find it in the archives. Otherwise, try looking through some of the abandoned houses for a phonebook. Meanwhile, I'll keep track of the Dark Army's movements. You never can tell with these things. Something tells me our position's gotten worse rather than better."

"Okay," said Harry.

"One more thing," said Moody, "that old cop you spoke to…"

"Yes?"

"If you meet him, don't talk to him again."

Harry gaped at him. "What? But why not? He already helped us…"

Moody shook his head. "We can't take chances, boy. The closer we get to the truth, the higher the stakes we play. Tread lightly, and stay vigilant." He paused, then added, "And keep that milksop with you at all times. At the very least, he's a good distraction."

"I heard that, Cue-Ball!" someone shouted from below. "If you're so concerned about his safety, why don't you get off your butt and start following us around?"

"Just get that bucket up here, and be quick about it!" Moody yelled back.

"Right, right, I'm hurrying…Whoops, tripped on the stairs and spilled a quarter of it! Too bad…Whoopsie-daises, there goes another quarter!"

Harry turned away to hide a grin. Moody was gritting his teeth. "See the things I have to put up with?" he said to Harry. "You go on to the inn and to bed. We'll see about our leads tomorrow."

* * *

When he was finally alone, Moody reached into his trunk and pulled out a device that resembled a small gas lamp. He lit the device with his wand, and the nozzle blossomed into a bright blue flame.

"You there, Albus?" he said.

The fire crackled and shifted, and the face of the Hogwarts headmaster appeared. Dumbledore's face was placid, but the deepening lines on his face showed his fatigue.

_"Yes, Alastor, I'm here. What news?"_

The old Auror did not answer he immediately. He bowed his head for a while, as if to come up with the right words, then he said, "I just heard about what happened at Portsmouth…"

At this, Dumbledore's eyes turned sad._ "…Ah."_

"Were there…any survivors from our side?"

_"We have one, just one. Ferris Perkinson. He was not at The Watchtower at the time, having gone to visit his mother in another part of the city. He arrived there just as the Death Eaters commenced their attack. From his account, we know they used Disillusionment Charms to hide themselves from Muggle eyes. Remus and Arabella are with him at the moment, asking more questions." _He paused, then said, _"His news about what attacked his comrades were...disturbing. I will let you know the full details once Remus and Arabella have finished with their reports."_

"I see. Perkinson, eh? I remember him, I think. Short fellow. Rather pimply. He was...the only one?"

_"…I'm afraid so."_

"Those men...I trained most of them myself."

_"I am sorry, Alastor."_

"'Course, we all knew what we were getting into. 'Live with death in your heart,' that's what we Aurors say. I told them that once. They knew what they had to do." He paused. "If only they weren't so young..."

_"The godland shall remember them, my friend, as will we. I shall do what we can. I've asked Lyle to send letters to their families."_

"The right thing to do, of course, yes," said Moody distractedly. He took another drag from his pipe before putting it out. For a time, the two old men sat silently at either end of the line.

Then Dumbledore abruptly said, "_I've not mentioned this to you yet, but I've managed to change the leadership of the Order._"

Moody quickly latched onto the new topic. "Did you? And here I was thinking you were all talk about that. Well, who's the unlucky bugger?"

_"Lyle, of course."_

"Lionel Bishop! Isn't that something!" Moody cackled and slapped his knee. "Knew that boy had it in him! How's he handling things now?"

_"He's quick, Alastor. He's had our units occupy outlying towns and villages near Portsmouth and tried to evacuate as many wizards as possible out of Southhampton." _

"Good. That's the next logical target. War's in good hands at least. We need to strike back as soon as possible. I wish I could be helping out at the frontlines right now…"

_"You'll get your chance, Alastor, as soon as this mission is done."_

"Right then," Moody rubbed his hands, then proceeded to report his discussion with Harry. On the other end, Dumbledore listened intently, asking questions every now and then.

When he finished, Dumbledore asked, _"Well, what's our next step, in your opinion?"_

"Think we're going to have to pull out soon, that's what," said Moody. "The Crystal's trail is already more than a year old, and now that the Dark Army's on the move we've got ourselves a shorter time limit. Portsmouth's some fifty miles southwest of here, and those Death Eaters are as slippery as leeches. I'd rather not risk the boy out of Hogwarts. We should clear out of here as soon as our leads our exhausted."

There was another moment's silence.

"Well, what do you say?"

_"I believe you should stay for now. The two weeks we agreed upon is sufficient."_

"You certain about that?"

_"I am. Without Apparating, it will take the Dark Army at least three days to march there on foot, assuming they decide to. Now with the Order in the immediate vicinity we can hold them off even longer. Also, I trust the boy. If there's something worthwhile there, he'll find it. Keep looking. Should you find a lead, follow it."_

"Alright then. Two weeks. Then I bring him back." Moody paused, then said, "I need to ask you something."

_"Yes?"_

"What about the girl? You talked to her yet?"

_"Not yet, I'm afraid, as I've just returned from the Summit."_

"She's a breach in security. Can't have her walking around knowing our secrets. Perhaps a Memory Charm…"

_"Let me worry about Ginevra Weasley, Alastor. I will speak with her shortly. She will not risk Harry's safety, I assure you."_

"Fine then. I hope you know what you're doing."

_"I do. Take care, my friend."_

After their goodbyes, then Moody sat alone in the dark, deep in thought.

"Clarice Moulding," he murmured. "Guess we'll be paying you a visit very soon."

* * *

Harry spent the next day at the archives, looking for something—anything—remotely resembling a list of residents. But the archives had yielded all it could for them, and once again Harry trudged back to the inn with bleary eyes and dusty hands.

The next day he walked the whole length of town, looking for people he could question. This time he also went to the police station, asking about the case of the grave robbery and if they had a directory of addresses. None of these did any good. The townsfolk would look at him suspiciously, then turn away when he mentioned the incident. The police were even less useful, guardedly asking him what he would want such information for. The old policeman who had helped them was not there.

Again, Harry trudged back to the inn defeated. He was starting to lose hope. _If I fail here, _he thought,_ it means Voldemort gets to do whatever he wants. It means I lose my one chance at stopping him. It means I would be failing everyone._

_But what can I do? What else can I do?_

"Danny?" Harry said, stopping in his tracks.

"Yep?" Danny came to a halt, surprised at the gleam in the other boy's eyes.

"Could you teach me to duel?"

"Eh? Teach you?"

"Yeah. All I know are some basic curses and a Shielding spell. I'd like to learn how to duel properly. My last teacher, erm, didn't do too good a job with teaching me."

"He was lousy at dueling?"

"He was lousy in general."

Danny scratched his ear. "What do you need it for?"

"That dark wizard I was telling you about. He might come after me, you know. I may have to know how to…to defend myself. Can you help me?"

Danny hesitated, then said, "I don't know, Robbie."

"What do you mean, you don't know? You not saying I can't do it…?"

"I don't know if you're ready for serious dueling, is what I mean. You're what, sixteen?"

"I'm old enough! How old were you when you leaned how to duel?"

Danny shook his head, smiling. "Let's not use me as a standard, it's not very fair." He took Harry by the shoulders and began walking him back to town. "Look, just leave the trouble-makers to Moody and me. You keep your mind on the business at hand."

Harry angrily shook off Danny's hands. "Listen," he said, staring the taller boy in the eye, "that wizard doesn't want to just kill me. He wants to hurt my friends and anyone I care about. I don't want to stand by as the same thing that's happened to my parents happens to them. I want to do something about it. I want to know how to fight. Can't you teach me how if you're as good as you say you are?"

Danny had his arms crossed, looking around at his feet, the trees, the night sky overhead, anywhere but Harry. But finally, his eyes lit up.

"All right, then."

The frown left Harry's face. "You will?"

"Sure, Robbie. We can start now, in fact."

"Now?"

"It's simple, really." Danny held out both hands, palms up. "Put your hands on mine."

Nodding, Harry did so. He quickly regretted it.

WHACK!

Harry drew back with a cry, cradling the back of his right hand. Danny had slapped it so hard his skin burned red. "What was that for?"

"This is the first thing you learn," said Danny, bringing his palms up again. "Improving hand-eye coordination."

"You call THIS training!" Harry cried. "Are you serious!"

"I'm absolutely serious. I thought you wanted to learn." Danny's face was straight. Too straight.

"This is stupid!"

"No it isn't."

"It's a bloody game!"

"It's training."

"Never mind, forget I said anything!" Harry heaved a disgusted sigh and walked past him.

Mr. Morrow greeted them as they walked into the inn. Unlike all the other townsfolk, he had warmed up to them and actually started enjoy their company. Harry pitied him; it must've been terribly lonely, living alone for months on end.

"How was your trip today?" he asked them. "Did you plant any of your experimental crops?"

"Unfortunately, we haven't found any suitable place just yet, but thanks for asking," Danny replied. "I wish we could find one, so we can get off your back already." He took off his scarf and coat. Harry did the same.

"Oh, don't you worry about it. It's no bother for me at all." He took their coats and hung them by the door. "You know," he went on, "after two decades of running this inn, I've gotten quite used to having people around. When everyone left, it was difficult for me to get by…I don't mind saying so…"

The idea suddenly came to Harry. "You've been working here for twenty years, sir?"

"That's what I said, yes," said Mr. Morrow, a hint of pride in his voice.

"You must know a lot of people in town then."

"That I do."

"Well, maybe you can help us. Do you know someone named Clarice Moulding?"

The innkeeper's brows furrowed. "Clarice…Clarice Moulding…Yes, by Jove, I do know her! Used to see her in the grocery shop every now and then. That is, before all the trouble with the contagion started." His face darkened a moment.

Harry's heart gave a hopeful leap. "Does she still live here?"

"She does. Don't see her very often, though."

"I don't suppose you have her address? She's a distant cousin of my mother and I'd love to visit her."

"Is she? Well, hang on a bit. I think I have a directory here somewhere." He walked off into an adjoining room.

"Well, gut me like a fish," said Danny, dropping into a chair. "Now why didn't we ask _him_ first before we went traipsing around town like a couple of damned fools?" He collapsed onto a chair and stretched his legs. Harry didn't answer. He felt his heart beating in his throat as they waited.

Five minutes later, Mr. Morrow came back, a small notebook in hand. "Here we go," he said, handing it to Harry. "She's in there all right. No phone number though. Must've had it disconnected some time ago. There's also a map on the inner side of the cover. You'll find her easy enough, I wager."

Harry opened the notebook and scanned the names under 'M'. He found what he was looking for.

_Moulding, Clarice_ ……………………………………… # 22 Winter Solstice

"Yes, here she is. Thank you. Thank you so much, sir!"

"Now, now," said the innkeeper, concern in his voice. "I wouldn't hurry off to meet her just yet, you know. She's not too keen on visitors lately. Because, well, you know… there'd been some trouble some time back…"

He started explaining Ms. Moulding's connection with the grave robbery, but Harry barely listened. His eyes were scanning then names under 'E'. His luck held; there was only one entry of such a name.

_Evans, Mr. and Mrs. William_ ………………………… # 12 Strawberry Spring

Harry looked up and gave Danny a meaningful look. The elder boy took his cue. He got up and put a hand on Mr. Morrow's arm, interrupting the innkeeper's story.

"I'd like to hear more of this tale of yours, sir, but my throat's a bit parched. I don't suppose we could take a look at your wine cellar? An established place such as this must sport a number of good brands, eh?"

"Hah, I'm glad you asked!" cried Mr. Morrow. "I have just the sauce to wet your beak, my boy. This way…"

He chatted on as they walked out of the room. They had barely left when Harry barreled out the front door, neglecting to even put on his coat. He sprinted all the way to the house across the street, up its rickety stairs, and into Moody's room, forgetting to knock. The old Auror was sitting in a chair, and raised his head as Harry entered.

"I've been watching from here," said Moody. "I take it that's the directory we're looking for."

Harry handed him the notebook. "Now we can go talk to her about the Crystal. I hope she's—"

"Hang on," Moody said, studying the map. "Let's not rush this. First, let's wait until tomorrow. No point bothering an old lady at so late an hour."

Harry nodded reluctantly.

"Second, you and Danny stay at the inn. I'll go ahead and check this place out."

This time, Harry gaped at the old man. "What? You won't let me go there? But… why?"

Moody scratched his chin, staring down at the address book. "Like I said, laddie, the closer we get to the truth, the higher the stakes."

'He's taking this bodyguard thing a bit too far,' thought Harry. "You don't suppose it's going to be dangerous…"

"It's a hunch, nothing more," replied Moody, "but my life had sometimes hung on just a hunch."

Harry thought it over. He had wanted to go visit Clarice Moulding straight away, but he realized there was something _else_ he coulddo in the meantime.

"Fine then," he said. "I'll stay in tomorrow."

"There's a good lad." Moody handed the notebook back to him.

"Won't you be needing this?"

"Nope. Got it all in here." Moody tapped his forehead. "You go get some sleep. I'll take care of everything from here."

* * *

There was a reason Harry readily agreed with Moody's plan, and he acted on it as soon as he saw the old Auror leave the house across the street. With Danny in tow, they made their way east of town, to Number 12 Strawberry Spring. Harry found the place easily enough, but did not at all like what he saw there.

The Evans's small, four-roomed home, perhaps once a cozy, charming place, now stood empty, damp and decrepit. In fact, it looked worse than all the other houses. Not a single window remained intact, and from the way the holes looked it was evident that they had been stoned. The shingles had been scattered on the weed-infested lawn, the rotting fence battered like broken teeth. A dented mailbox lay on its side like a beaten dog.

Even though he knew how scared these people were, Harry could not help feeling angry at how they had mistreated his mother's house.

"Robbie?"

Harry shook himself from his reverie.

"I'm alright," Harry said as he faced Danny. "I was just thinking."

Danny nodded, then looked at the house. "Shall we go inside then?"

They searched from room to room, cellar to attic. The entire place was picked clean of furniture and other belongings; only dirt and cobwebs decorated the walls, and rust lined the hinges and knobs of every door. The shelves were empty of books. Water stains traced odd shapes on the peeling wallpaper. In the bedroom the found a rusty metal frame but no mattress. As the hours passed, the entire floor became covered with the dusty tracks of their feet. It was mid-afternoon when they finally emerged into the open air again.

As Harry stood on the sidewalk, staring at abandoned house, he found it hard to imagine that anyone had once lived in this place, that his mother had once lived and laughed here for ten years before she left for Hogwarts. In the end, he realized he didn't really come to her old house to look for a clue to the Crystal's whereabouts. He came to find something that once belonged to her. Something he could take and safely keep with him, just so he could prove that her life here had not been a dream so easily broken by time. But there was nothing. This house was bereft of memories.

"Don't let it get you down, Robbie," Danny said, patting his shoulder. "Even if we don't find what we're looking for, so what? There're a hundred other ways to stop evil uncles, aren't there?"

"I suppose," said Harry, not really paying attention.

"Absolutely. Now tell you what. I found some really good wines down in Mr. Morrow's cellar last night. Let's go for some drinks when we get back, okay?"

"I don't drink. Thanks anyway." Harry gave the Evans house one last look, then started walking back to the inn.

* * *

"Damn," muttered Moody. "Damn, damn, damn, damn."

He had been standing for nearly two hours in a shadowy alley, cautiously watching for movement from the house across the street. Number 22 Winter Solstice lay in the western part of town, some hours' walk from The Everglade Inn. Getting there was the easy part. It was the waiting that was driving him crazy.

He had planned on taking no more than an hour staking out the place, perhaps even take a look inside the house itself. But the yard was too open and there were people in the neighboring houses. One man even went out and spent hours on end staring up at the dead tree in his yard. Not wanting to risk exposing himself, Moody waited.

Now the evening was rolling down from the eastern hills, bringing with it its pale mists and its chilly wind. The house across from him looked utterly empty. No lights on, no smoke from the chimney, no movement in the windows. It did look inhabited though: the garden was free of weeds and a pile of dead leaves had been raked together in one corner. The house's white walls still stood upright, its windowpanes free of dust, the navy blue shingles on its roof intact. Yes, someone still lived in Number 22. Maybe the owner was simply out on business. Maybe she was taking a long afternoon nap.

Maybe.

It seemed so easy. A cop waiting on a bench outside the library, carrying some handy information in his wallet. An article guiding them to the one person who knew about the Evans, and even about the Crystal. Who, coincidentally, was still hanging around town. Not in his fifty-odd years with the Aurors did he meet such blind luck on a case. It was too convenient, too dazzlingly simple.

And that was the reason he made Harry and Danny stay behind at the inn, and he was alone here in the slowly darkening afternoon, freezing his arse off in the bare streets of this god-forsaken town. Every five minutes or so he would steal a glance at the Foe-Glass in his palm, but the mirror remained stubbornly hazy. Still, the alarms in his head did not cease their clanging. The longer the silence stretched, the louder they rang. _Damn, damn, damn_.

'A trap,' he thought, 'someone set a trap.' Someone was trying to lead them here. But who? Why?

The sun had completely set behind the western hills at quarter past seven. By then, Moody had had enough. If it was a trap, then let them spring it. They'd find him a very rough customer indeed.

He took out his wand, bent down, and cast a simple Silencing spell on the clawed foot of his leg. After a quick look around, he hurried across the street. He ignored the gate leading into the garden, skirting instead to the rear where the back door was. Near the edge of the garden he stopped and watched for movement. When nothing happened, he Disapparated, reappearing in the house's shadow, beside the back door. He froze again, listening. Still nothing. His hands touched the edge of the wooden wall.

He had investigated hundreds of buildings back in his heyday as an Auror. Not all of those activities had been Ministry-sanctioned, nor had they all included back-ups; some he had done for his own purposes. There was a little trick he sometimes employed when he went solo, a kind of mind game. He imagined he was being followed by an apprentice Auror—a _tyro_—in a form of on-the-job-training. These mental lectures helped him keep calm and focused. At the very least, pretending he wasn't alone kept his courage up.

'The first rule you should know about breaking into a house,' he silently told this apprentice, 'is that you never use to phrase _breaking into a house_. We Aurors _pay visits_. Use the other phrase and you'll have your badge revoked faster than you can say 'Abracadabra'. Got that?'

A nod from his imaginary partner.

'Good. Second rule is, look before you leap.'

The pupil of Moody's magical eye dilated, and the wall he was facing dissolved into a milky, translucent screen. The room beyond was both kitchen and dining room. Everything looked clean and well maintained. A small electric stove stood beside the sink, and against the wall was one of those refrigerator things. A ragged apron hung from a nearby chair. The small table at the center of the room had been set for one, and beyond it, another door that led into the hall.

His eye inched up and down the walls and the doorframe, looking for alarms, Muggle or otherwise. Finding none, he laid his hand on the cool metal doorknob and gave it a slight twist. Locked, of course, but he had no problem with that.

He pointed his wand at the knob, but suddenly froze. Something moved in the far corner of the room beyond.

A rat ran across the kitchen floor, the long coil of its tail snaking behind it. It stopped beneath the table and stood on its hind legs, nose twitching and sniffing the air. Moody grimaced. He hated rats, and instantly he thought of doing Mrs. Moulding a favor by getting rid of this unwelcome guest.

As if hearing this thought, the rat scuttled away from the table and vanished beneath the stove. Moody shrugged and cast Alohomora on the knob. The door quietly clicked open and he slipped inside.

The moon had risen above the eastern hills, giving him just enough light to see around the dark house. 'Now,' he told his student, 'let's get to the bottom of this. Keep quiet, and keep your eyes open.'

Silent as a shadow, Moody moved from one room to the next, searching for anything of interest. Everything seemed to be in order. Doors were shut, books neatly arranged on shelves. A grandfather clock kept time in the hall near the stairs to the second floor. Pictures lined the mantlepiece. Moody stopped and studied one.

'Look here. That's probably her to the right. And the family she's posing with...notice the red hair and the green eyes on the young daughters, and how one of them resembles the Potter boy. It's the Evans, all right. Our girl's more sentimental than superstitious, seeing she kept this picture.'

He moved on, and the more he looked, the more he disliked what he saw.

'Pay attention now,' he instructed. 'What do you see? Not a light on in any room, and someone had pulled down the blinds and closed the curtains. In the den there's some cold ash in the hearth and a half-finished cup of coffee on the table. Picture box's off, but see the little red light there? It's still plugged. Someone had been using it not too long ago. No, don't touch it, fool! Never touch anything 'less you have to. Leaves marks. Now follow me, and mind that table near you.'

In the hall near the front door, Moody found a little yellow slipper, lying by itself on the carpeted floor.

'Well, _tyro_, here's our first real clue. Think our quarry's the type to leave her slipper lying about? It's on its side, so she either kicked it off or dropped it. My guess is the latter, because…'

He dropped to one knee, examining the carpet on the floor. His eyes narrowed into slits.

'…Because she was grabbed and lifted. Here's another print on the carpet, too deep for an old woman to make. And there, near your foot..."

Moody picked up a tiny bit of crushed grass, less than an inch long, and held it to his nose.

'Dried up already. Could be a day old, maybe more. It smells strange...rotten. And he picked her up all right. High enough for her feet to dangle, then her slipper fell. May have strangled her…'

He got up and turned to the door, eyes wide and roaming.

'Look here. What do you see? What, give up already? There's nothing, nothing at all. No sign of forced entry, magical or otherwise. Her visitor may've been someone she trusted, else she wouldn't have the mind to open the door.'

The old Auror descended upon the carpet again, this time with his wand out. "_Lumos_," he whispered, and shone the light upon the floor.

'What do you make of these grooves on the carpet, eh? Bastard strangled her, then dragged her body this way...'

He followed the tracks, which were almost too slight to be seen by the naked eye, down the hall to the foot of the stairs.

'The Muggle—we can assume he's a Muggle since he didn't use magic—dragged her by the shoulders. These twin grooves on the carpet must be her heels, see? Looks like we've to go upstairs next. Come along. Tread light and slow now. The stairs don't have carpeting, and they may creak.'

Still keeping the beam of his light low, he quietly gained the steps, face turned up to watch the second floor. To his own ears, even his soft footfalls seemed to echo in the empty, silent house.

On the landing he found the second slipper, and bent to examine it.

'He didn't bother to hide anything, did he? Careless type, but efficient. No struggles from his victim. She didn't suffer long—'

Moody started at a whisper of movement from the floor above. He got up and whirled about at the same time, wandlight aimed high.

Two huge rats were perched on the second floor railing, watching him with glittering red eyes. Moody had to stop himself from shooting them down like ducks in a firing range. 'Blasted filthy little vermin! So you came back with your brother, eh? Get down here…'

The rats scampered back into the shadows when reached the next flight of stairs. Then a question came to him, one that had been in the back of his mind the moment he entered the house.

'What would rats be doing in a home as clean as this?'

He had not seen one warm-blooded animal in the entire town. There had not even been any rats in the abandoned house he was occupying (and he'd fully expected to do some extermination when he first moved in). Yet here they were, in this particular house.

'Passing strange, yes. We'd better find out once we're done here. For now we've got to get our bearings straight. No doubt we won't be getting any help from Mrs. Moulding, thanks to her unwelcome guest. The question now is…is he still here?'

His imaginary apprentice seemed very uncomfortable with this idea. But there was only one way to be sure.

Moody gained the steps all the way to the top, and flashed the light up and down the hall. All quiet. His magical eye scanned the three rooms about him. One was bathroom, the other two were bedrooms.

All of which seemed empty!

'Now what?' grated Moody.

His gaze fell upon the floor. The hall here was carpeted and the grooves were there again. They lead to a room to his right. Moody crept forward and stood before it.

'Right. Get your wand on guard. Pick your fastest spell; we're in close quarters here. Again, look before you leap. You ready?'

Behind him, his phantom student gave a nervous nod.

Moody put his hand on the knob and eased the door open. He entered what seemed to be a small guest bedroom. A single feather bed lay beside the opposite wall, flanked by two windows. The lack of pillows and quilts on the bed, and absence of items on the boudoir suggested it was not in use. Moody searched the entire room, but found nothing of interest.

Just as he was about to leave and examine the room across the hall, he heard it. Rustling sounds, from directly overhead. He stopped and looked up. _The attic. _

He tried seeing through the paneling with his eye, but found it too dark too perceive much. A second later he spotted the trap door on the ceiling, near the corner of the room. 'No ladder,' he thought. 'Killer must've taken it up with him. If he's still hanging around, he's probably hiding up there. Now then…'

He traced several patterns into the air with his wand. Moments later a silvery ladder stretched from the floor to the ceiling. Moody stepped on it, testing it stability. Then he climbed all the way to the top.

Right before he opened the trap door, he silently told his student, 'You'd better stay here and keep me covered. I'll call if I need you.'

No dissenting votes there.

Moody pressed his palm against the door, took a deep breath, then pushed upwards. He expected resistance, something—maybe someone—blocking his way into the attic. But it gave way easily. Moody lifted it just enough to peer inside and his nose was immediately attacked by the smell of dust and age. Looking about, he saw only one small window on the wall to his right, letting in a little shaft of moonlight which fell upon a stack of cardboard boxes on the floor before him.

Moody eased the trap door open. Very cautiously, he made his way up, turning his wandlight this way and that. He saw more cardboard boxes, filled with musty old books and discarded photo albums. An unused candelabra lay on the floor. Moody started at what he looked like a human figure, but it was only a naked mannequin propped up against the wall. No one was here.

But there was a tall closet on the far wall of the attic.

Once he noticed it, Moody did not immediately turn to face it. Instead he made his way to the nearby window as if to look out onto the street. But before he did, he passed the light of his wand upon closet's wooden double doors.

The inside of the closet was completely dark. But when his beam of light passed it, for a split-second it shone through the crack between the doors. And in that slit of light his magical eye glimpsed another eye—pale, staring, and wide open!

Moody faced the window, but he was not looking at anything, not anymore. His magical eye was turned over and watching his back, ready for any sudden movement from the closet. His heartbeat sounded awfully loud in his ears. He focused, willing himself to be calm. 'Now', he thought, 'now I have to catch my quarry off guard.'

With a cry he whirled about and leaped towards the closet doors. He yanked them open and immediately stood aside, wand at the ready, mouth twisted into a snarl.

There was someone in there all right. Someone he had been meaning to find all along.

The body of Mrs. Moulding tilted forward, then collapsed face down onto the floor. For a moment, Moody stood there stunned. Then he got down on his knees and faced her up.

She was pale, haggard and very dead. Cobwebs were tangled in her mousy grey hair. Her sallow skin was ice cold and wrinkly, like the flesh of a rotting fruit. Her face was a mask of shock; mouth open in a silenced scream, sunken blue eyes wide and staring.

He had been right about her death, but wrong about her murder. There were no bruises on her throat. No marks at all on her skin.

_Wait a minute._

Moody's magical eye dilated as he peered closer. There was something, very slight, right there on her throat. It was some kind of illusion, but Moody saw right through it. And when he did, a cold tremor ran down his back. Now he knew who—or what—their adversary was.

He passed his hand over the poor woman's eyes to close them, and got to his feet. He had to get out of here and get back to the boys. Right now they may be in very grave danger.

The way back, however, was blocked.

At first, he didn't know what he was looking at. It seemed like several glowing cigarettes butts lying in the dark. Then he turned his light upon it and saw they were the glowing red eyes of huge rats. Dozens of them had quietly climbed up the trap door and surrounded it, with many more coming out of holes in the walls and the floor. Now they chorused in hungry squeaks, tails twitching like a forest of worms.

Moody stepped back with his wand held at the ready. With his other hand he reached into his pocket, drew out his miniature trunk and tossed it down between him and the rodents. It slammed full-size onto the floor.

The rat army was advancing, not seven feet away. Their chittering was a high-pitched hurricane.

"I've no time for you right now!" bellowed Moody over the din. "Get you gone!"

The rats reared back on their little legs, then charged.

"_Six!_" roared the old man. He bent over his trunk, even as the vermin fell upon him.

* * *

Harry jerked awake.

'I must've dozed off,' he thought, as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. His last memory had been lying down with his fingers laced behind his head, thinking about Hogwarts. One glance out the window told him it was full dark outside. He had been asleep for a couple of hours.

'I wonder if Moody's back yet.'

He got up, walked to the window and glanced at the house across the street. Not that he could actually see much; Moody probably had the windows blocked with those magic picture frames. 'I'm going to have to go there,' thought Harry, 'if I want any information.'

The faint sound of drunken laughter drifted up from the floor below. Danny had said he'd be investigating Mr. Morrow's wine cellar, and it sounded like he found what he was looking for. He must have convinced the old innkeeper to join him by now.

Harry's gaze drifted from the street to the cemetery on the hill. It was an ugly shapeless lump breaking the dark horizon, with only the tallest tombs visible above the web of vines and grass. Harry shivered at the memory of those smashed, defeated crosses, those headless angels in their robes of vine.

He was about to go back to bed when he noticed something.

He had been wrong after all—not all the statues had been harmed. Far off, atop a huge crypt, dimly lit by the moon but unmistakable, stood one angel with its head still intact. Its silhouette towered over the ornate marble grave at its feet.

Harry paused to stare at it. How could the vandal have missed that one? It stood in plain view from the graveyard path, not concealed by neighboring statues or obelisks, not even covered in vines. How odd.

Then the gibbous moon slipped free of the clouds and spilled its pale, ghostly light on the cemetery grounds.

A cold tremor ran down Harry's back, and every single follicle of hair it passed stood on its end. His eyes widened, his jaw fell slack, and he took an involuntary step backwards.

The moonlight fell on the silhouetted figure. Instead of feathered wings, a pair of huge, outstretched bat wings protruded from its back. And they were slowly moving, flapping and catching the night breeze. The figure turned its head towards him, and Harry could see the two glowing pinpricks of green it had for eyes. It was no angel. It was no statue.

Harry stood rooted to the spot, staring at the hideous apparition. It was crouching now on the roof of the crypt, still staring with those lit matches of jade. Then it leaped into the air. It was flying straight towards the inn. Towards his window.

Harry groped for his wand, even as his feet backpedaled to the door.

But the air was filled by the beating of great wings, and before a scream could rise from his throat his window was smashed open. Shards of glass pelted everywhere. Harry covered his face with an arm. Something dark and heavy descended upon him, its clawed hands reaching around his chest and across his face. A foul stench assaulted his nostrils and filled his head. He gagged, even as the creature, with its hideous strength, bore him bodily into the air and towards the window. Harry struggled, but it caught his neck in the crook of its arm, cutting off blood and breath. His last memory was that of his wand slipping from his grasp and clattering on the wooden floor. Then darkness consumed him.

_To be continued_

_Chapter IX: Into Darkness_

_And a mind, unknown and unrelenting, touched with his. In the next instant his eyes were filled with the image of a woman standing next to a tree. Her deep crimson robes revealed only pale grey hands that ended in sharp nails. Long red hair covered her face, but her eyes were visible. Green, piercing eyes that stared without blinking. Staring at him, into the depths of his mind._

_Then the light went out._


	9. Into Darkness

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**The Phoenix and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter IX : Into Darkness**

Daniel loved alcohol. All great friendships, he decided, ought to begin with all parties getting wasted right and proper. Like death, he mused, alcohol is a great equalizer; rich or poor, noble or commoner, men are all the same when either dead or stone drunk.

Mr. Morrow had several bottles of homemade wine wasting away in his cellar. Daniel preferred gin, but wine was good nonetheless. He had slapped the innkeeper's back, inviting him to take part in an exorcism, "that we may liberate these poor, restless spirits trapped in your cellar." And, suiting word with deed, they had lugged four bottles up to the dining room.

Danny refilled his glass and took another long swallow. He imagined that somewhere in the back of his head were three switches for the varying levels of drunkenness. The first, marked 'Easy,' had been flipped three glasses ago. He was probably a glass away from 'Tipsy.' Moody wouldn't take too kindly with him getting 'Smashed,' but the spirits were very convincing tonight.

Beside him, Mr. Morrow had his head buried in his arms, blubbering about his troubles since the town had emptied of residents. Danny pretended to listen, his hand on the innkeeper's shoulder. He owed it to their host to show some form of sympathy, right? Right.

He fleetingly wondered how Robert was doing. He had peeked in their room some forgotten time ago before the 'Tipsy' switch flipped and saw the other boy asleep on the bed.

Danny wondered about that boy sometimes. He could tell Robert—if that really was his name—was hiding something. Lying, in fact. But about what he wasn't sure. Then again, what did it matter? Danny was getting a good deal, getting paid a tidy sum for a job as easy as this. And it had fringe benefits. Dumbledore's good will, for one. Free drinks, for another.

So let him keep his secrets. Danny wasn't about to begrudge him that. After all, everyone had something to hide, right?

"Abso-bloody-lutely," he muttered, smiling wanly and taking another sip. "Everyone's got something to—"

He immediately spat out the wine as the front door flew open with a bang. Danny's right hand flew to the leather sheath on his belt, but the intruder was already upon him, one gnarled hand grabbing him by the lapels and hefting him to his feet. Mr. Morrow took one look at the figure and scrambled backwards, screaming. He was consequently ignored by all parties.

"Moody?!?" cried Danny. "What the hell—"

Soot and grime stained Moody's coat. He smelled of smoke and burnt flesh, although he did not seem to be harmed. "Why aren't you with the boy?!" he demanded. He didn't wait for an answer and he began dragging Danny to the stairway.

"Gerrof!" Danny yanked Moody's hand off of his shirt. "What the hell're you trying to pull? You scared that man half out of his wits!"

"The boy," growled Moody. "He's all right?" "I—yes, he's fine! I checked on him fifteen minutes ago and he was sound asleep!"

"We'll see. Now, that old man you met three days ago—"

"What old man?"

"The cop, you fool! Describe him!"

Danny paused. "He was very old. Wrinkled. Dried up. Completely bald. He wore thick gloves. Actually, he looked no different from any old fellow I've met in this town."

"Did he have a shadow?"

"_What?_"

"Did you see if he had a shadow?"

"Are you out of your gourd, old man—"

"Look!" Moody raised a warning finger. "We're in big trouble. Get that through your head right now. Don't say anything unless you're damn sure about it. _Now tell me if you saw this man's shadow!_"

Danny took a deep breath and said, "All right. I don't know. I never noticed. He'd been talking to Robert so I never noticed. Happy? I hope you are. Now would you be so kind as to tell me WHAT THE HELL IS GOING—"

A terrible crash and a muffled shout from upstairs interrupted their conversation. Moody's magical eye whirled to the direction of the noise. Danny felt the floor reverberate beneath his feet, and instantly the last of the liquor drained from his head.

Moody cursed and bolted up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Danny drew his wand and ran up after him. They tore down the hall side by side and burst into the room where Robert was sleeping.

But the bed was empty except for rumpled sheets and shards of glass. There was more glass on the floor, along with the wooden remains of the windowpane. Just beyond the dark gaping hole of the window came a rush of air and the faint, heavy sounds of beating wings.

Moody roared and charged towards the window, Danny at his heels. The old Auror scanned the night sky beyond with his magical eye.

But the night was their enemy's accomplice. Clouds covered the moon, darkening the sky. Neither of them could see where the intruder had gone.

Danny felt his insides sink. "What in the world was that thing?"

"_Nosferatu_," said Moody, more to himself than to Danny. "An Ancient one. The crosses didn't deter it. It must've been spying on us all this time, studying our habits, looking for weaknesses..."

"A vampire?! Here?!? You can't be serious!"

"And what do you know about it?" said Moody, turning on him. "That they were killed or driven off from Britain decades ago? That they fear garlic and a few simple crosses? That they show up on Dark Detectors and can be killed by stakes? Pah!" He turned to the window again. "You think Ancients play by the rules?"

Danny's mind whirled at these words, but Moody was already hobbling towards the door. He stopped mid-way, reached down to pick up something and tossed it over to Danny. It was Robert's wand.

"Now," breathed Moody, "now, you can _try _to justify your fee." And he stalked out of the room.

Shame filled Danny, a feeling he had become well-acquainted with in his younger days. But as he followed his godfather out the door, his shame slowly gave way to anger. By the time they had reached the first floor, he was burning with rage. He did not even see Mr. Morrow cowering in a corner. Kicking a chair out of the way, he and Moody made for the exit.

'Whoever you are,' thought Danny, loosening the straps of the gauntlet on his left forearm, 'whatever you are, for your sake, I hope you can fly fast. I hope you can fly _real _fast.'

With Moody in the lead, they loped through the dark streets of Hillsdale. They headed for the cemetery.

As he slowly returned to consciousness, the first thing Harry noticed was the stench. He had known it before, though briefly; the smell of age and dust and rot. He knew where he was even before he opened his eyes. He was in a crypt.

Slowly, the world came into focus. He was sitting up, facing some source of light—a single candle sitting on a dusty stone tomb. The flame was tiny because of the lack of air in the enclosed space, leaving him a small bubble of sickly light to see by. On the ground beside the tomb lay the rumpled uniform of a policeman. 'He must be dead now,' thought Harry. 'Whatever it was that got me, it got to the old cop first.'

Around him on every wall, the dimly lit figures of beheaded angels stood guard. Directly across from him, on the other side of the tomb, he saw the shadowy outline of the crypt's sealed entrance. And in the far right corner, the skeletal remains of the tomb's last resident lay in an ungainly heap. Harry was alone.

Then, as he was about to get to his feet, a voice spoke in the dark.

"Awake," it said, seeming to come from the very walls themselves. "At last the sleeper wakes."

Harry clamped his mouth shut, trying not to scream. His eyes tried to pin down the source of that terrible voice. Movement from the opposite side of the room arrested his attention.

Tendrils of thick grey mist were seeping through the cracks of the entrance. Slowly they crawled to the floor and began pooling together beside the tomb. Harry watched in horrified fascination as the pool began to rise in a smoky pillar. The mist solidified into the shape of a man clad in a black robe, and the tomb's newest resident entered the circle of light. Harry found he could no longer suppress his scream.

He was wrong about the old cop. He was not simply dead. He was worse than dead.

Looking at it now, Harry could not fathom how he could have mistaken it for a man. It was giving him a nightmarish grin, and even the dim light could not disguise the sharpness of its fangs. Dark bat-wings were folded on its back. Its long, gangly arms ended in thick gloves of black silk. In the gloom he hardly seemed to be there; a floating head of pale and sallow skin that formed deep wrinkles on its bald head and around its eyes. Eyes like green-flamed torches. Harry knew enough from Defense Against the Dark Arts to know what stood before him.

"_Hhhhh_...So nice," it rasped in an ancient, hollow voice, "so nice of you to join me, bloodling."

"You!" shouted Harry. "I thought you were trying to help us!"

The thing cackled and crept forward. Harry pressed himself against the wall, as if he could will himself to meld into it. Failing that, he slid towards the nearest corner. Anything to put distance between himself and the creature.

"_Hhhhhh_elp you?" it rasped, "Maybe not, man-flesh_hhh_. Certainly it has _hhhh_elped _me_."

"You gave that article to trick me?" demanded Harry.

"Trick, aye. I take little chance with _whhhhizards_. Your friend...is watchful and dangerous. Bears many a trap and device. I needed to be tricksy, to be sly!" It gave another unearthly cackle, cut off by a hacking cough.

"I gave you that little clue, _kef,_" it went on, "and talked about curses and magic, because that would interest you, _whhhizard_. All the same, so predictable. Make curses only to break them, break them only to make more. _Hahahaha...kef..unghhh..._"

Harry stared in shock . "Then...then the Evan's curse..."

"_Kef_. No curse on this town, bloodling...no curse but myself! My clue led you to that woman's house, where long I had lain my trap. Your guardian thought _hhhimself_ clever to go alone. Thought he could sniff the danger out. But my pets were ready for _hhhhim_: _heeeee_...he fell, the man-fool! Like a pig to slaughter! _Chk kik kik kikk krrr_!"

Harry's mouth fell open. "What have you done with Moody?"

A whisper of movement, and it was crouched on the tomb. The candleflame wavered but did not cast the thing's shadow on the far wall. "_Heee heee_...Not for you to know, bloodling. Not for you to know. Now you needs worry about yourself." It flipped into the air, attaching itself to the low ceiling like a fly. There it pulled something out of the shadows, something wrapped in a thick cocoon of spidersilk. It began unraveling the threads, crooning a wordless, dreary tune punctuated by coughs.

Harry felt himself going numb with fear. Moody is _dead_? He couldn't be! He just couldn't be!

"My...my friend will find me," Harry said, trying to rally his courage.

"_Kar!_" laughed the vampire. "Not watchful, that one. Strong but _foolishhhh_, a man-donkey. I did not wait long till he left you to yourself, alone, defenseless, _kikrrr..._"

"Just _who _are you?! What're you going to do to me?" He paused, suddenly remembering his worst fear. "You're a servant of Voldemort, then?"

"I SERVE NO MASTER!" it shrieked, turning its blazing eyes on Harry. "I AM NO _WHHHIZARD'S_ SLAVE! _I AM WAGNARD, AND I AM BEHOLDEN TO NO ONE!"_

The creature leaped soundlessly onto the tomb, still clutching the spiderweb cocoon. Wagnard's coughing was loud and harsh, and breathing seemed an act of will alone. Alarmed by its nearness, Harry scrabbled away, hands splayed on the wall behind him.

"I care not for your troubles—_kef_!" Wagnard went on. "I care not who you are! You are here...._hhhh_ere...for one thing only—the same reason I am!"

He held up the cocoon, drew a blade-like thumbnail across the bottom. Something shiny slipped out and fell onto the stone with a sharp _clink!_ It glimmered bright red in the candlelight.

Harry's eyes widened. "That's..."

"_Hhhhaaaaa...._The Crystal Cage," the vampire finished for him. "Long sought by the followers of the Cimmerian Sorceress. Found at last, after hundreds of years of fruitless searching. Found by me!"

The brooch was quite small, nowhere near the size Dumbledore had described it to be. It was blood scarlet and bright as a star. Twin bands of rusted metal wound around it like vines. This was the Crystal Cage, their weapon against the Dark Lord?

"You cannot understand, bloodling," whispered Wagnard, creeping forward, "_hhhaahhh_ow long those years were for one like me. You cannot understand _hhhh_ow long I searched for it, night after night, century after century..._hhhhhh_ow I heeded nothing else—not power, not riches, not the making of my own brood. All for this.

"She was my own. I made her. She came to me a long time ago, seeking power, seeking immortality. _Hrrrrrrhaaa._..And I gave it to her. _I made her what she was!_ She would have been mine for all time...if not for Volarius's _treacherrrry_!" He bared his fangs and clutched at the edges of the tomb. The stone lid began to crumble in his grip.

A wild thought came to Harry, one almost too terrible to contemplate. The vampire before him had long gone mad; the centuries had broken his mind. There was no way Wagnard was letting him get out of here alive.

He had only one hope. He had to buy time. Time enough for Danny to find him. He pushed aside the thought that his bodyguard wouldn't even know where to begin looking. He had to stay calm. For his life.

With a steady voice, he asked, "What do you mean? What did Volarius do to you?"

"_Hhhhheee_...He tricked me!" cried the vampire, shaking his clenched fist at the ceiling. "Deceiving, conniving, false _whhhhizard_! Made me think he had taken her away to another land! Fooled me into searching till the ends of the earth! Curse him, curse him and his falsehoods! _Hhhhh_ad he not been dead, I would pop out his lights with my thumbs, carve out his brains, and keep his skull as a trophy!"

Though Wagnard was looking right at Harry, his gaze was looking beyond him. Harry realized that the vampire's mind had slipped into the past.

"I searched on and on, then at last, a clue! I learned the story of the Crystal Cage from a _whhhizarding_ man-fool. Told me all of it, right before I drained him dry. _Kef...krrrk..._I returned forthwith to Britain, to hunt down the sons and daughters of Volarius's blood. I would smell them, I thought, find them easy!

"_Hhhhrrr..._But I had been gone too long! None were to be found! All gone, dead! The blood of Dahlia, faded from the mortal realm!

"For hundreds more years I wandered across this land. It changed before my eyes—steel towers, glass obelisks, strange monuments rose whilst the elder landmarks fell to ruin and were forgotten. The Cimmerian Sorceress passed from story to legend, legend to myth, myth to dust. _Hrrr...hraaahhh..._I searched on, searched every hidden library and archive for a clue. Until at last, at last I found where the jewel gone—it had been passed on to non-_whhhizards_, to simple man-flesh! _Kef—C_unning worthy of Volarius! I came to this town, hid in this boneyard. And _hhhh_ere, here I found it. In the grave of Evans's, I found it!"

"But why are you still here?" asked Harry. "Why didn't you just leave with the Crystal and find a way to break it yourself?"

Wagnard snarled, "I could not! Volarius was treacherous to the last! He had cast one last enchantment on the jewel, something I did not expect."

He removed one black glove, and at first Harry thought he wore another one beneath it. But he was wrong—the vampire's right hand was charred black to the bone.

"When I tried to touch it, it burned me! My minions would not go near it! _Hrrrrand _though I wrapped it in spiderwebs, the Crystal would refuse to leave this churchyard. _It burns me still to this day!_" It let out another unearthly cry and launched itself at the wall. Harry scrambled for the other corner as the cracks appeared on the stone around the vampire's fist. Wagnard turned and fell to his knees before the Crystal.

"Dahlia!" he cried. "To be near you, yet still so far! Why do you reject me still? I am the last who remembers, the last who still loves! Why do you spurn me so?" Wagnard grasped the brooch with his right hand. There was a hissing sound as his fingers made contact, then a plume of smoke, and he snatched back his hand. His coughs started up again, lasting a long time, each one coming like a blow to his chest.

"I-I did what I..._kef—_could," he wheezed, "I h-hid you here, Dahlia, to this crypt, though it cost me dearly..._kef..._" He removed his other glove, held up both his burnt hands as if in offering. "Come with me, Cimmerian Sorceress, brood of my blood. Come with me. Loose your bonds, and share my eternity in damnation."

He fell silent then, as if listening for a response. For a moment Harry thought the creature had forgotten about him, but Wagnard raised his eyes to him once more.

"I knew one of her blood would come one day," he rasped, grinning. His fangs looked very sharp, very strong. "This jewel is linked to your bloodline. _Hrrraaa..._You will never be free of it. Always one will come. Always one will seek it. And so I waited _hhhh_ere. For one such as you."

"So _you_ destroyed the cemetery!" said Harry. "_You_ drove the people from the town!"

"Yes, it was me! I could not hide my nature for long. I desecrated the cemetery so I could rest _hhh_here. To get back my strength I fed on the youth of this place. I knew how to cover my tracks—not _hhh_hard, a little magic to hide the wounds. But the man-fools thought it a... _kef_-contagion. They left in droves. Left their old and weak. I lived on their blood for as long as I could, but it took its toll. I am now as you see me: old and _withhhhered_.

"But my waiting has not been in vain. You came at last. I caught your scent the day you arrived. I watched you at night in the form of mist. And I thought of a way to ensnare you. Now you are _hhhh_ere, at my command. And you will _fffffreeee _her from her cage!"

"No, no," said Harry, horrified, "you can't make me do that!"

"Yes, yes, I can make you!" mimicked Wagnard. On all fours he crawled towards Harry, eyes burning a venomous green. Harry shrank back against the wall as the vampire brought his face close to his.

"You WILL free her! Or you will suffer for it. I have tortures for every year I'd spent in unlife. Find you a way to release _hhheeerrr_, or you will know them all!"

Harry realized he had nearly come to the end of it. His chance for rescue was smaller than ever. There was one thing left to do.

Harry knew that he would almost certainly fail to make the Crystal's enchantments work, but the vampire was convinced Harry could figure it out; he apparently knew very little magic or how it was done. So Harry had to _pretend_ that he was doing it. It was the only thing he could do to stall for time. Clearly, the best way to prolong his life was to prolong his usefulness.

So he said, "If I...if I release her...will you let me go?"

The vampire looked pleased. He drew back a little. "Yes, yes, now the man_-fleshhh_ sees reason. Release Dahlia, and you may go."

"And you'll let me take the Crystal with me?"

"Yes, yes, take it with you. Never let me see it again."

"Do you give me your word?"

"Yes, YES! Release her! Free my love, _hrrraaa..._then you go free! Free her ..._hrraakkg_...and the little bloodling shall get what it deserves!"

His words filled Harry with a biting dread, but there was no turning back now. With an effort of will he walked past the vampire and stood before the broken tomb. The Crystal lay there, glinting in the dim light.

Is she really still alive in there? He wondered. Maybe she would be, if she were a vampire like Wagnard. The thought of having done that to herself in order to achieve power and immortality sickened Harry. Clearly all Dark Lords were the same.

He reached a hand for the Crystal, then drew it back. He belatedly realized something.

If it burned him, he would not be able to do anything at all. And that would be the end of his ruse.

Wagnard leapt and perched onto the tomb like a huge, malformed crow. "_Hhhurry _now! What are you waiting for, man-_fleshhh_? Why do you waste time?"

"I...I have to prepare," replied Harry. "This is not going to be easy magic. I have to concentrate."

"Well then, prepare! But make haste! I have waited a thousand years—_hhrraagkh..._I will wait no more!"

Harry tried to calm his nerves despite the sight of Wagnard glaring at him. Part of him was trying to play the role, but another part was running around in circles, screaming, 'Where's Danny?! Where's Danny!?!', and was not helping at all.

"You _hhhh_esitate, bloodling," said Wagnard, eyes narrowing. "You need convincing, yes?"

Panic surged through Harry, but he used what little anger that had welled up inside of him.

"I'm about to cast a spell," he snapped. "If you'd only let me concentrate then we can get on with it. If I make a mistake and die, then you'll have to wait another hundred years before someone else comes along to help you with your problem."

The green torch eyes flared, but it worked. Wagnard fell silent.

Harry somehow reigned in his galloping heart and began muttering some made-up words under his breath. They did not sound like a spell at all—more like a nursery rhyme said backwards. He could not imagine anyone falling for so poor a ruse.

Many minutes passed this way. Finally, with nothing left to try, Harry raised his hand and, very gingerly, touched the Crystal.

The polished surface felt cool against his skin.

Harry sighed in relief, and cupped the jewel in his fingers. Before him, Wagnard's hands shook with anticipation. "Closer," he wheezed, "closer we come..."

Harry muttered a long string of words, and brought his other hand around the Crystal. Nothing was happening, and that came as both a relief and a worry. A relief because the less he toyed around with Crystal without supervision, the less chance of him accidentally doing something bad, like freeing Dahlia. A worry because, with no obvious effects, his apparent usefulness to Wagnard was quickly decreasing.

The Crystal remained still.

He whispered more words, one hand poised over the brooch. Long minutes passed. Once he stole a look up at the vampire, and regretted it. Wagnard was glancing from the Crystal to Harry's lips, and the first flickers of suspicion were lurking in his eyes.

Nothing. Still nothing. Nothing at all—

Harry ceased his chanting in surprise. A glow began to emanate from Crystal's depths. It gleamed steadily brighter, and within a few moments had outshone the candle beside him.

By then, Harry had forgotten to breathe. _What have I done?_

"Yes, yes!" cackled Wagnard. He was leaping up and down on the tomb. "That's it! _Haaa...haaa_...I knew it would work, I knew it! _Haaa_....Now, finish it! Cast your final spell!"

But Harry no longer knew what to do. He was scarcely aware of anything else but the Crystal, glowing nova-bright in his grasp. It was in control now, burning so radiantly that Wagnard snarled and raised an arm to shield his eyes.

Then, Harry felt them. Invisible hands, rising out from the Crystal's depths, touching his fingers. They were cold, like they had been dipped in snow or ice water. Panic paralyzed him as he felt those hands slowly flow up to his wrist, then his elbow, then his shoulder. He could do nothing as the fingers felt his face, his ears, his forehead.

And a mind, unknown and unrelenting, touched with his. In the next instant, his eyes were filled with the image of a woman standing next to a tree. Her deep crimson robes revealed only pale grey hands that ended with sharp nails. Long red hair covered her face, but her eyes were visible. Green, piercing eyes that stared without blinking. Staring at him, into the depths of his mind.

Then the light went out.

Harry stumbled backwards and dropped the brooch. He felt weak, drained and disoriented by the sudden darkness. He had little time to get his bearings when a shriek, filled with anger and anguish, filled the air.

"NO!" screamed Wagnard. "No! Why did it stop! _WHHHYYYY_?!"

He leaped down and grabbed the jewel. A hiss, like that of meat landing on a hot griddle, assaulted Harry's ears. Wagnard dropped the Crystal and fell back, clutching his hands in agony. Then he lurched forward and grabbed Harry.

"Do it again! Cast your spell again!"

"I...I can't..." said Harry, trying to think. "I'm too weak...If I could rest, then..."

"You were so close! Did you see her? Did you feel her presence?"

Harry shook his head. "Need...to...rest...can't..."

"_KAR_! Do it! You WILL do it! Or else I will make you sorry." He pulled Harry close to his face. His breath smelled of sepulchers and corpses; his twin fangs promised a slow end. "I will make you like me. I will turn you into a vampire!"

A fathomless fear gaped within Harry. 'It's over,' he thought. 'I'm going to die, I'm going to die very badly. Sorry, Mom, Dad, I'm so sorry I couldn't—'

There was a roar of thunder and the air was suddenly filled with smoke and debris. The explosion rocked the vampire on his feet. He dropped Harry and whirled about. Harry felt pebbles raining on him and he covered his head on instinct, but not before he saw two fiery bolts slam into Wagnard's chest just as the vampire turned around. Wagnard was flung against the wall behind the tomb, out of sight. Harry turned to the stone entrance, now blown wide open. Standing amidst the remains of the shattered door were two men he thought he would never see again.

"Danny! Moody!" he cried, scrambling to his feet and running towards them.

Danny had a wand in each hand, both pointed at the spot where the vampire was lying. Moody was shining his wandlight at the tomb, then at Harry.

"You all right, boy?" said the old man. "Get away from here! That thing might still be dangerous. Run for the gate and don't stop 'til you see the Inn."

"Sorry we're late," said a grim-faced Danny. "Think this is yours, by the way." He tossed the wand in left hand over his shoulder. Harry caught it. If he hadn't quite believed he had been rescued, he did so now. Relief was flowing into him, giving him strength.

"Thanks," he said, feeling the word incredibly inadequate. "I didn't think—"

"Save it," said Moody. "We're not out of the woods yet. Get on out of here."

"Wait!" cried Harry. He ran towards the tomb and began digging through the dust and debris.

"What're you doing?!" cried Danny. He rushed forward to cover him. "It isn't safe for you to—"

"The Crystal Cage! It's here somewhere! He had it all along!" Harry shone his wand on the floor, desperately searching. He doubted those curses had seriously hurt Wagnard, and he had to find it before the vampire woke up.

Moody had surged forward, shining his light on the ground. "You're sure it's the real thing?"

"I used it—nearly, anyway. We can't let him get it back or else he'll—there!" He pounced on a glinting object, dug it out of the rubble, and held it up to Moody's light. The brooch looked unharmed. Harry let out a sigh of relief.

"Good work!" said Moody. "Saves us a lot of worrying. Now get to safety. We'll take care of the rest."

Harry did not need to be told twice. Turning off his wandlight, he rushed to the entrance, into moonlight and mist. He had never thought the cool night air could smell so good.

But he had not taken three steps out of the crypt when a hideous cry rent the darkness, followed by the beating of gigantic wings. Dust billowed out of the crypt's black maw.

"Run!"

He could not tell who shouted the warning. He did not even look back. Harry broke into a run, tearing down the graveyard path.

His right hand clutched at his wand, his left hand curled tightly around the jewel. The black skeleton of the cemetery gate loomed directly ahead—he could see it, and it looked like it was miles away. Vines snarled themselves around his feet, slowing him down. Twice he nearly stumbled on hidden rocks.

And still those heavy wings, above him now, matching the pounding of his heart. An inhuman shriek filled his ears—too near! He glanced up to see the huge bat-like form of Wagnard swooping down, claws grasping. Without even time to think, Harry threw himself flat onto the ground. Stars exploded in his vision and his mouth tasted dried grass. The vampire passed him like a windstorm—Harry felt the very air press him into the earth. But Wagnard had missed.

Harry looked up, surprised his glasses were still intact. He saw the creature fly up several feet, then flip over for a return sweep. Harry leaped to his feet and dashed to the nearby tombstones. He ducked behind one just as Wagnard reached him, claws outstretched to rip off his head. Yet again the creature missed, and his howl of frustration echoed throughout the cemetery.

Harry heard the sound of running feet on the gravel path.

"Stay down, boy!" bellowed Moody. "Wherever you are, stay close to the tombstones! He can't get you there! Danny, take that way! I'll take this route—"

Harry was already crawling on all fours through the maze of crypts and statues. Terror was a real and physical thing, constricting around his lungs and limbs. He turned left and right without any real sense of direction, like a mouse evading a circling owl. 'He can smell me,' he realized with horrific despair. 'I can't hide—I can't hide at all.'

As if to prove him correct, Wagnard appeared directly before him, his booted feet planted on the two tombs flanking Harry. Harry froze in mid-crawl; he had nowhere to dodge.

Wagnard reached for him with his ice-pick nails, green triumph in his eyes.

The curse came from the vampire's left, slamming into his face. He fell sideways off the crypts as Danny leaped over them.

"You okay?" he shouted down at Harry. Harry found he could only nod.

"Then stay there! Wait for Moody!" Danny rushed forward. Harry crawled to the foot of a tall sepulcher and watched as Danny leaped from tomb to tomb, chasing the receding form of the vampire. In the blink of an eye Wagnard took to the air again, out of Danny's reach.

Danny remained standing on a low crypt, wand at the ready. "Come down here, you pansy!" he shouted up at the vampire. "Let's see how you like having holes bored into _your_ neck!"

For a while, nothing happened. The tall boy jumped up and down on the crypt, throwing more stinging challenges at the creature. Wagnard flew around the moon in a lazy circle, ignoring every taunt. Harry nestled in the shadow of the sepulcher. He still had the jewel, clutched so tightly in his hand the edges bit into his skin. He was unhurt—at least for the moment.

A thought occurred to him: where in the world was Moody?

Suddenly, the vampire dipped down towards a steel fence surrounding a lone monument. Wagnard grabbed the bars and pulled, snapping off a whole section. He flew in three fast circles with the fence hanging from his hands, then dove straight down at the Danny.

Danny hunched low and held his wand high. The tip glowed like a bright yellow star. The vampire was rapidly descending on him, but he did not budge. 'He's meeting him head-on?' thought Harry. 'Is he crazy?'

Not twenty feet from Danny, Wagnard released the steel fence and veered upwards. It flew towards Danny, a wall of whistling spears. Danny's hand was a blur as he aimed and fired. His curse ripped through the fence, sending the pieces in many directions.

But before Danny could aim again, the vampire suddenly dove in from the right and slammed into him at full speed, wrenching the tall boy off of the tomb.

Harry watched in horror as Wagnard carried Danny high into the air. The vampire had the other boy by the throat. Danny was flailing his arms, trying hard to connect a punch. At some point, his wand slipped from his grasp. It twirled as it fell to the ground. The two combatants kept spinning through the air, climbing towards the pale gibbous moon.

Then Wagnard dropped him.

"No!" cried Harry. He sprinted out his hiding place, eyes glued to the plummeting body. Danny was going to crash into a row of unyielding tombstones within seconds. There was no time to even think.

Harry skidded to a halt on the cemetery road and shouted the only thing that came to mind—

"_Wingardium Leviosa!_"

He froze, wand arm outstretched. For one awful moment, he thought he had missed.

But in the next second, the other boy's terrible momentum slowed to a feather fall. Relief crashed into Harry. With his wand, he made Danny drift towards the open road before him. Danny had fallen about sixty feet, and stopped at about twenty. His face looked white and gaunt and his whole body was stiff as a board.

An exultant cry rang in Harry's ears. Wagnard had spotted him, and lost no time for his opportunity. Harry could neither run nor hide: Danny was still too high in the air for him to drop. The vampire rushed towards him, wings and arms akimbo—

_"SIX!"_

Harry spun to his left and saw Moody standing beside a tall column a few yards away. His trunk had popped open before him, revealing what looked like a lump of dark rock. The Auror's wand was burning like a lit match. As the vampire closed in, Moody dropped his wand into his trunk.

Harry was not quite sure what he saw next. First there was a loud _FOOM!_, then a loud buzzing noise, then a hundred red sparks shot out from the trunk and into the sky. They flew towards the oncoming Wagnard like a barrage of tiny fireworks. The vampire was moving too fast to stop or dodge. He plunged headlong into their midst. Some of the sparks scattered, but most began attaching themselves to the creature. Where they touched cloth, the sparks winked into flames. Wagnard screamed in agony.

Watching all this in wonder, Harry had forgotten about Danny. But the other boy caught his attention by waving his long arms and pointing desperately down at to the ground. Harry gently lowered him. Danny landed on his feet but quickly dropped to his knees with his head bowed. "'Scuse me," he said, sounding sick. "Heights."

"Hide your wand!" Moody shouted at Harry. "Quickly now! The fire wasps will attack anything they see as a threat!"

Harry quickly stuffed his wand into his pocket.

Above them, Wagnard spun and beat his wings, shrieking his fury. Try as he might, he could not escape the cloud of flaming insects. They attacked him from all sides, and though he batted at them they easily avoided his flailing hands. Soon he was completely burning, and with an anguished cry fell onto a tall crypt. Still the wasps did not relent.

"That's it," said Moody, his eyes huge and glaring. "He'll not last long against that."

All three of them watched as the vampire's body vanished into a cloud of smoke. The cries turned from fury to agony, then weakened into nothing. Pieces of burnt cloth drifted down on them like black snow. The flames began to die out, and the fire wasps ceased their frenetic buzzing.

"Is he...is he gone?" asked Harry, still staring. There was only thick smoke and grey mist.

"Damn it, Moody!" shouted Danny, getting up. "He was mine! I was going to finish him!"

"Quit your snapping, pup! You've done enough damage for one night."

"_I'm_ causing damage?! Where'd you get a fire wasp hive, eh? And you say _I_ have illegal creatures?!?"

"One word about this to anyone and I'll shut that gob of yours for good!" Moody picked up his wand and waved it. The fire wasps zipped back to the black hive in his trunk. He turned to Harry and asked, "Were you hurt?"

Harry shook his head. "I'm not. Danny?"

The other boy was massaging his neck. "Bastard had quite a grip. I'll be wearing a black collar by tomorrow."

"Fine then," said Moody. He let out a long, ragged breath. "Let's leave this churchyard and get out of town. People will come running in here any moment now, and they'll be having questions. The only questions we'll be answering will be Dumbledore's. Back at Hogwarts."

The last sentence came to Harry like a song, and a tired smile crept onto his face. He had done it. He had found what he was looking for. The wizarding world now had hope. And he was going back home. _Home_.

Danny staggered towards Harry, an annoyed expression on his face. "Any idea where my wand landed? I hope it fell on some vines, else I'll have to—"

Suddenly his eyes widened. "MOODY! LOOK OUT!"

In the next second, something blacker than the night struck the column next to Moody. Harry heard the rumble of crumbling stone as the pillar began to collapse. The old Auror looked up at the descending column in utter surprise, then threw himself on the ground beside his trunk. The pillar fell on top of him with a thunderous crash.

Both Harry and Danny stared in shock as a cackle rose into the air. The dark shadow leaped onto the fallen column, leering at them with burning green eyes.

'Mist,' Harry realized, a dazed dread filling his brain. 'He turned into mist to escape the wasps.'

A angry roar rang in his ears. Danny was tearing off the gauntlet from his forearm.

But Wagnard had leapt into the air and in the next heartbeat was dashing between them. His outstretched wings struck their faces, knocking them apart. Harry's wand went flying as he landed squarely onto a tomb. His teeth rattled as the back of his head slammed against the stone. Dazed, he found himself gazing up at the stars, and the pain was rearranging them into unfamiliar constellations. Clutching his head, he pulled himself to his knees.

A strong wind pushed at him as Wagnard came down, squatting before him on the tomb. He looked worse than ever; his pale flesh was charred and leaking black ichor. Little holes had been burned through his webbed wings. His head was no more than a skull with jade eyeballs. He stank of burnt flesh and death.

"_Nowhh_," he rasped, "_nowhh I whill take whhhat is mine...heend the bloodlhhing...gets whhhhat it deservessss!_" He reached for Harry's neck.

Harry remembered the Crystal in his left hand and closed his fingers tighter around it. His vision swam, partly from pain, partly from anger.

"You want it so much, Wagnard?" he snarled. "Here!"

Harry lunged forward and thrust the Crystal at the vampire. There was a hiss and a plume of smoke as the jewel made contact with Wagnard's chest. The vampire's screamed. The sound stuck Harry like a blow and a momentary darkness passed over his eyes. Wagnard grabbed his forearm, sinking his claws deep into flesh. Harry gritted his teeth to keep from crying out, and pushed the Crystal further into Wagnard. The vampire screamed louder, his mouth forming a dark fetid O. Harry felt his strength leaving his arm.

"Robert!"

A sound like a gunshot filled the air as a bright flash struck Wagnard's back. The vampire crumpled to one knee, and Harry saw Danny standing some distance away. He was aiming something with his left hand, something silvery and glowing and difficult to make out. He fired it again and Wagnard jerked. The vampire was still clutching onto Harry's arm. He looked Harry in the eye, then with desperate strength wrenched himself away and fell backwards off of the tomb.

Harry stared down at his own arm. He was bleeding from ten little crescent-shaped wounds. And his hand was empty.

Choking gasps came from his nemesis. Dazed, Harry shuffled to the edge of the tomb and peered down.

Wagnard lay on the dead grass, drawing long, pain-filled breaths. The Crystal smoked and smoldered on his chest, burning a hole deep into his flesh. Seconds later it had sunk out of sight, though the hissing and smoking remained. It had reached his heart.

Wagnard stared up at the black, starry sky. His face was a landscape of unspeakable pain, but his eyes registered only an endless grief. Harry found he could not turn away, awful though the sight was. Perhaps it was the look of utter failure in Wagnard's dying gaze, of a hundred lifetimes lived and gone to waste. Perhaps it was the thought of witnessing a thousand years of unlife coming at last to death. Perhaps it was the realization that this being, once a man, was now being killed by the very thing he had loved for so long.

Whatever the reason, Harry felt he had to look and bear witness. Now that Wagnard was finally dying, Harry pitied him.

Finally, there came the sound of boiling liquid, and the vampire released a long, smoking death rattle. His body tensed, then relaxed, and as if for a final release began to crumble into ash. As Harry watched, the night wind picked up and wisps of ash flew and scattered into the air.

The Crystal Cage lay there amidst the grey pile, silent and slumbering.

Harry stepped down from the tomb and closed his left hand around it. His wounded arm felt as numb as his mind.

"Robert?"

Danny caught him as he staggered forward. "Steady now," he said, "It's really over. You did it. You got him."

Harry nodded wordlessly.

Panic suddenly crossed Danny's face. "Moody!"

He made Harry sit down on the grass and sprinted to the fallen column, calling for his godfather. As Harry watched, a wizened hand crept out of from beneath the pillar. Danny grabbed it and yanked the Auror out, much to Moody's angry protests. The old man did not appear hurt at all. His trunk had been strong enough to hold up the pillar, saving him from getting crushed.

They were beside Harry a moment later. _It's over_, Harry told himself. He shook his head to clear it. _It's really over now._

"You okay?" Moody asked. He had his arm extended towards Harry.

"I...I..." Harry realized that the old man was trying to help him get up, and raised his left arm to Moody's grasp.

Moody brought him to his feet, then stared down at his arm. "You're wounded."

Harry had completely forgotten. "It's all right," he said. "It doesn't hurt."

"It should." Moody kept staring, and Harry looked down as well. Red splotches were forming around the leaking wounds. His arm was numb all the way up to his shoulder. All of a sudden, he felt quite weak. His knees buckled, and Danny quickly grabbed his other arm to support him.

"Wha-what's happening?" Harry asked. His vision was spinning, his skull felt as if it were constricting his brain.

"We're taking you to the inn," said Moody.

"Hang on, Robert," said Danny.

Hang on.

_Hang on._

The words made no sense. And the world was spinning faster.

What's happening to me?

"He caught a disease," said Moody. "The vampire guarding the Crystal Cage wounded him. Might be grave rot—I'm not sure. Whatever it is, it's eating up his strength."

He was sitting on a stool beside the bed, talking to Dumbledore through the lamp on the table. The headmaster's eyes were gloomy and pensive as he watched the boy. Harry lay prone on the mattress, dressed in his pajamas, the blanket up to his chest. His injured arm was bandaged and lay flat by his side. Below the wet rag on his forehead, his eyelids fluttered in restless slumber.

"He'd been awake for some time now," Moody went on. "The fever wouldn't let him sleep. He'd feel hot with the blanket on but cold without it. Had to knock him out with a bit of Sleeping Draught. I'd have him talk to you directly, but knowing the boy he'd try and tell you everything in one sitting. Not too keen about his own health, this one."

"You were right to let him rest, my friend," replied Dumbledore.

They were silent for a while, the Moody said, "This is my fault. I shouldn't have fallen for such a trick."

"Enough, Alastor. None of this was your fault. Nobody wanted this to happen. You performed your duties admirably, as did Harry. Our secrets are still safe."

"I've got some medicines in my trunk, but I'm sure they're not enough. How soon can we get our Medi-wizards here?"

"We had fielded them all since the emergency today, but I shall request Lyle to send two to Hillsdale immediately. There will be some difficulties getting them there in secret, so in the meantime, please do what you can for him."

"We can't we bring him back by Port Key?"

Dumbledore sighed. "In its weaked state his body might not withstand the shock of the journey. A man with a terrible fever once died as his friends brought him to the hospital via Port Key. We should not take chances until we are certain of our actions. Let him rest here for now. The Medi-wizards will arrive within a few hours."

"Very well." Moody nodded, then said, "It seems you've got a lot of work tonight yourself."

Dumbledore shook his head. "We are in a war, my friend. The time for rest is over."

They said their goodbyes, and Moody shut off the lamp. Behind him the door opened and Danny poked his head in.

"How's he doing?" he asked. There was a note of suppressed anxiety in his voice.

"Fever's gotten higher." Moody took the rag from Harry's forehead, dipped it in cold water of a nearby basin, and placed it back. He gazed at the boy's shut eyes. "He'll be delirious soon. Maybe he'll start talking in his sleep."

"I'll take a turn watching him."

Moody regarded his godson. "No, let me do it. You keep standing guard, and make sure the innkeeper stays out of this room." Moody's skill in the Memory Charm were not that polished, but they were enough for Mr. Morrow. Moody would knock out all of the man's memory if it meant getting to stay longer at the inn.

Danny opened his mouth to protest, but something in the old man's voice forbade argument. He left, shutting the door behind him.

Moody kept watch over Harry's sleeping form. It would be a cruel joke, he thought, if they gained the Crystal but lost the only person who could wield it.

"You're a fighter, lad," muttered Moody. "I know 'em when I see 'em. You can win this one too. Just...don't keep us waiting. I hate waiting."

Harry lay still, barely breathing. The old Auror sighed, then reached for the radio beside him and twisted the knob. There was a crackling sound, and the announcer's voice came on, clipped and interrupted by hissing static.

_"...There is little doubt on the terrible events tonight...Ministry has yet to issue a statement on the current crisis, but is assuring us they are doing all they can...no word at all from residents...no word on who our enemy is...all we know for certain...the city of Southhampton has been taken...Southhampton has been taken..."_

_To be continued_

_Chapter X: In Memories: Ginny --_

Ginny woke to the lilting voice of the enchanted book and her own verses, and the first thought that came to her head was, "He's been gone a whole week."


	10. In Memories: Ginny

The Phoenix and the Serpent 

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter X: In Memories: Ginny**

_"My one true love has stars for eyes_

_His face is wise and fair_

_The raven dark of midnight skies_

_Doth blaze upon his hair."_

Ginny woke to the lilting voice of the enchanted book and her own verses, and the first thought that came to her was, "He's been gone a whole week."

She reached for her bedside table and shut the book. She had set it to wake her at six in the morning, but had no idea it would choose to read _that_ wretched work of hers. Not today.

She lay still beneath the covers, staring up at the canopy of her bed as the dim morning light crept across her window. All around her were familiar morning sounds: the cheery songs of birds on the rafters, the wind sighing through the tall trees outside the dormitory, and in the next bed, a girl sniffling and whimpering beneath her blankets.

Saturday, she thought, closing her eyes. Today's Saturday, and not one atom of her body wanted to get out of bed. But sleep, her best refuge from her own thoughts, would not come back. Fingers of light were pushing the darkness from her eyes, and awake, she could not help but realize: it's been seven days since he left, seven of the longest days she'd ever known. 'Is he all right? Will he really return in two weeks? And when he does, will we go right back to ignoring each other? Or is it all going to change again?'

She had no answers. A nasty thought said she might not like the answers if she knew them.

No one else was awake at this hour. For a moment Ginny toyed with the idea of staying in bed the whole day, but remembered she had to speak privately with Hermione, and their dormitory was a poor choice for that sort of discussion. Then she groaned, recalling something else. She had to serve detention today for being ten minutes late for yesterday's Transfiguration class. She had slept badly the night before, worrying so much over Harry, that when she woke up the next day the sun was high and classes were about to begin. Funny how she woke up early now when she didn't need to.

She got up and walked into the bathroom. She was usually the first person up and about in the girl's dormitory. Today she was glad for it. Except for Hermione, she did not want to talk to anyone else. After her bath she collected her book from her bedside table. Maybe she could read the day away in the common room.

She stepped out of the dormitory, but came to a halt at the top of the stairs.

It was sitting there by the common room window, chin leaning on one hand as it gazed out at the courtyard. When the dormitory door shut, it lifted its head to look at her.

"Good morning," it said, smiling.

Ginny did not respond. Clutching her books to her chest, she bowed her head and took the stairs down. She paused at the bottom. Then, eyes still on the floor, she quickly crossed the common room to the door. She did not have to look up to know the homunculus still watched her. She caught a glimpse of it as she let herself out the portrait hole. It was still looking at her, though the smile had gone. The sunlight shone on the raven dark of its hair; its eyes glimmered like green glass.

"Are you well, dear?" asked the Fat Lady. She peered at Ginny, concern on her face. "You look rather pale. Is something the matter?"

Ginny took a step back from the portrait door. "It's nothing. I'm all right."

"Perhaps you should visit the infirmary?"

"I'm fine, really!" she said, laughing a little. Then she turned away and hastened to the stairs. She made it to the still empty Great Hall, sat down at Gryffindor table and opened her book. She stared down at the random, non sequitur phrases that had flowed out of her quill over the past few days. Thanks to her mood, her writing had become even more chaotic than usual.

She stared down at the last sentence she'd written.

_"You left with the snows and the parting frost_

_Without memory of the happiness that we had both lost."_

Ginny shut her eyes. Something ached inside her, but whether she ached for Harry or for his ghost to leave her alone, she couldn't tell. Some days she could just lose herself in schoolwork, or beneath the covers of her bed. But sometimes there came days like today, when the past returned like a recurring dream and no place was ever a refuge.

_It was two years ago, at the time of the Yule Ball when Ginny first discovered how quickly things could change when she wasn't looking. _

_It happened in Gryffindor Tower. She was comforting Ron from Fleur Delacour's rejection when Harry came in, just in time to hear about the whole mess._

_"She looked at me like I was a sea slug or something," moaned Ron. "Didn't even answer. And then—I dunno—I just came to my senses and ran for it."_

_"It wasn't your fault," said Harry, "I bet you just walked past when she was turning on the old charm for Diggory and got a blast of it—but she was wasting her time. He's going with Cho Chang. I asked her to go with me just now…and she told me."_

_A while later, Ginny ­left Harry and Ron in Gryffindor Tower and made her way to the girl's restroom on the third floor. There she stared at herself in the mirror for a very long time. _

_'So this is what heartbreak feels like,' she thought, brushing her eyes with her sleeve. Her skin felt hot but her insides felt cold. In her chest something was dead and heavy, and her mouth tasted of bitter, bitter wine. _

_She'd told Harry that she had promised Neville she'd go with him, but this was not entirely true. Neville did ask her earlier that morning, but she said she needed time to decide. "I've never gone out with anyone before," was her excuse. It was not a terribly nice thing to do to Neville, but part of her was holding out for a miracle—that at last, Harry Potter would think to ask her. _

_Now she had to say yes. She had to go find Neville and say 'I've finally made up my mind, sorry to keep you waiting.' It was the excuse she'd used to turn Harry down, and she had to stick with it; the moment Ron broached the idea of the two of them going together, a horrible image came to her mind: she would be in Harry's arms on the dance floor, yet his eyes would be drifting elsewhere, to another girl dancing past them._

_Ginny had never seriously considered that Harry could grow to like someone else. He had pretty much ignored every girl who had shown any interest in him. She had imagined he was sealed away in a bubble, visible but apart from the rest of the world. That he would stay the same, waiting for her._

_Well, the bubble had burst. Maybe there had never been one in the first place._

_A substantial part of her hated Cho Chang. Hated her petite, lithe physique, her creamy skin and that shiny black hair that stretched down to her waist. Hated her charming smile and those sleek dark eyes that could've belonged to a fox. Hated it that everyone in school knew her name, that she loved Quidditch and was a natural on the pitch. All these had attracted Harry to her—and she wasn't even trying to! What did it matter that she turned him down today? She'd caught his eye—if she wanted to, anytime…anytime she could…_

_ Ginny stared, despairing, at her red hair and the freckles that dappled her nose and cheeks—they really stood out when she paled. She had once liked the color of her eyes: a rich brown, like the color of peanut butter or cinnamon. But now brown seemed very dull. Why didn't she get something as mysterious as black, or as arresting as blue? _

_ For days, the questions taunted her: why couldn't she be prettier? Why couldn't she be more interesting? Why couldn't she muster more interest in Quidditch? Why couldn't she have been born earlier? _

_ It took little more than a week before her self-pity gave way to anger._

_ 'You insensitive clod!' she railed at his back. 'You near-sighted dolt! Why didn't you at least have the decency NOT to mention inviting Cho while _I_ was in the room? You know how I feel about you, don't you? _Don't you_?!' And these moments were followed by visions of walloping him over the head with his Firebolt, or of turning him into a gnome and flinging him over their garden wall. _

_ After another week, she woke up one morning and felt indescribably silly. _

_'Really,' scolded a mental voice, 'Why are you beating yourself up over all this? So Harry doesn't see you that way. So he prefers girls like Cho. Why should you blame yourself or the rest of the world for it? Do you really think it's anyone's fault? For Merlin's sake—grow up, Ginny.' _

_ The voice sounded oddly like her mother's._

_The more she thought about these words, the more she realized they were true. She was acting no better than a child who had been denied an expensive treat. She hadn't been fair to Neville, and she hadn't been fair to herself. What's more, with all the moping she'd done, she suspected everyone in the girls' dormitory already knew why she was so depressed. _

_'No wonder people still think of me as Ron's little sister. No wonder Harry doesn't see me as any more than a silly little girl. Maybe that's how I really see myself.' _

_ Well, she decided she no longer liked herself that way._

_'I'm thirteen years old now,' she thought, staring up at the canopy of her bed. 'I guess it's time I acted my age.' _

_ In the months that followed, Ginny relentlessly pursued her grand scheme for 'growing up.' _

_ The first item on her list was: Quit obsessing over Harry. Yes, she was still aware of the exact moment he sat down with them at Gryffindor table and yes, she still could not tear her eyes away each time he pushed his glasses back when they slid down his nose, but she was able to forgive herself of these habits. For the most part, she succeeded in prying her mind off of him, and that brought her some peace._

_ She also wanted to stop feeling like the Weasley 'little sister,' a brand that was beginning to sound suspiciously like 'the family pet.' She doubted she could escape it so easily, but something had to be done nonetheless. After some reflection, she thought that maybe she could set herself apart if she exceeded her brothers in some way. _

_Percy, for example, had been diligent in both his studies and duties, but had few real relationships in Hogwarts other than with Penelope Clearwater. In her turn, Ginny tried to be more open and friendly to people outside her own small circle of friends. She even went out of her way to create ties with those not from Gryffindor. Slytherins for the most part did not seem to be people, so her job was considerably easy._

_ Fred and George were outgoing, charismatic, and well-known for their mischievous sense of humor. They did lag behind with their studies, however. Ginny's own marks were far from failing, but they were nothing spectacular either. She pushed herself in that direction to see how far she could go._

_ Ron was perhaps the most well-known of the Weasley children in Hogwarts, being Harry's best friend and partner in their many adventures. However much she wanted to, she knew she could not exceed this closeness. She was, however, all ready Hermione's friend, so she decided to be as good to her as Ron was to Harry. She also resolved to listen more and talk less, a practice that required real effort on her part._

_ There was one more thing she wanted to change about herself: she resolved not to be so open with her feelings. Hiding them was like holding her breath; if she were happy, sad, or angry, she couldn't help but show it. What had her mother said to her? 'Don't give so much of yourself away, Ginny dear. Men like women who are a bit of a mystery'. She never understood that until now. Perhaps because she never made a secret of her feelings for Harry, she never caught his interest. Or anyone else's, for that matter. _

_'Well,' she decided, 'even though I've given up on him, I could still try for a little mystery. It might do me some good.'_

_ Ginny diligently pursued her resolutions, and before long was organizing study groups for difficult subjects, members of which included Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. Her grades improved, as did her standing with her Professors. Professor Flitwick started relying on her for demonstrations in Charms (though he would take every opportunity to tease her about her first disastrous Wingardium Leviosa lesson). Her circle of friends expanded. People said hi and waved at her when she walked through the halls, and she often went with a group of friends to Hogsmeade, or on punting trips out on the lake._

_Among these people, she found one best friend in Hermione. They spent many good times together, telling stories and sharing secrets—though Ginny now knew enough to keep her most secret thoughts to herself. Hermione tried to interest Ginny with some of her own books, and on Ginny's birthday gifted her with an enchanted book of her own. Ginny's experience with Tom Riddle's diary made her apprehensive at first, but since it did not have a mind of its own and only repeated what she wrote, she began to enjoy its odd company. It sang the songs she liked, recited the poems she wrote, and read her the stories she loved. When she felt like it, she made up her own verses. It didn't matter that her words made little sense. 'Sooner or later,' she thought, 'I'll be able to pluck something pretty out of this trash.'_

_ The last weeks of her Third Year were bright with memories, of warm spring breezes and sunshine on melting snow, of laughter and lazy days spent in a boat on the lake, of quiet moments reading in the library or by the common room fire, of traded secrets and late-night discussions on the dormitory floor. She wrote down as much as she could in her little book, in a queer mix of code and poetry only she could understand. Ginny finally understood why her Mum said that her school years were the best ones of her life. It was nearly summer, and already she could hardly wait for her next year to begin._

_ The Third Task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament brought Harry back into her life with the suddenness of a waking dream._

_ It had all happened so fast. First Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum had been dragged, dazed and dumbfounded, out of the hedge maze, but there had been no sign of the Hogwarts champions. The crowd muttered to themselves like trees in a storm wind, and watched the professors wandering up and down the edges of the maze. Then a scream rent the still evening air. People started running for the source of the commotion. The crowd obstructed Ginny's view, but they soon parted enough for her to see…_

_ Cedric Diggory, prone on the ground. Dead. _

_Harry lay beside him, injured and bleeding. Maybe even dying._

_Ginny watched as Mad-Eye Moody led Harry away from the labyrinth and towards the castle. All around her, people were whispering and pointing, but she could do no more than stare. 'How could this happen?' was the thought most prominent in her mind, and at the heels of that: 'Is he going to die?' She had merely thought those words when she felt a chill colder than the rain, and the world around dissolved into a cruel winter grey. _

_She started forward, but the crowd moved with them, shielding him from sight. Too small to fight her way through, she had no choice but to follow when their prefect led them away. The people she passed were faceless, frightened shadows, speaking in alien tongues. Someone nearby was sobbing Cedric's name, over and over._

_ Later, Professor McGonagall came up to their common room, looking pale and thin as a piece of chalk. She informed them that Harry was out of danger, but needed to rest for now. Many terrible things had happened but it was all over. There was no need for anyone to worry anymore._

_ But worry they did. Ginny stayed up long into the night, fragments of all she'd seen whirling in her head. Cedric Diggory, a fixture of normalcy in the Hogwarts studentry, was now gone. Gone also was the thought that they could count on Hogwarts as a safe place. And worst of all, she had nearly, very nearly, lost Harry for good._

_She pitied him, yes, but she also felt oddly guilty. It was as if she had abandoned him these past few months—a silly thought, but it was there nonetheless. Was it fair that she shut him out of her life because he'd unwittingly hurt her? Didn't he deserve any friend he could get during these dark times? Ginny thought he did. There were enough people out there who would turn accusing fingers on him when they find no one else to blame. They already did so, once. _

_ At last, several days after the Third Task, she went up with Ron, Hermione and some other Gryffindors to the hospital wing. Ginny hung back in the corner of the room as all the rest chatted with Harry, asking him if he was okay while carefully avoiding anything connected with the Third Task or Cedric. _

_Ginny simply watched them, but found no chance to say anything beyond 'hello.' Bruises stood out on his pallid skin, and there was a strange gravity in his eyes that filled each pause in his sentences. Still, he seemed all right. She saw that with her own eyes, and it comforted her. Ron, Hermione, Dumbledore and all the rest would take care of him now. _

_ It saddened her, and made her more than a little envious of the people gathered around him. Harry was always going to be a fixture in her life, but there had always been some unseen barrier between them, excluding her from his company. Her mother and brothers were no help, always trying to shield her from the darker details of Harry's life, as if she wasn't already thirteen years old. Did things always have to be that way?_

_ 'Maybe not,' she thought. Maybe Harry was never going to see her in a romantic light. Maybe that simply wasn't meant to be. But it didn't mean that she couldn't be close to him in another way._

_ As she left the hospital room, a fervent wish rose in her heart—that someday, Harry Potter might see her as a friend. _

_ Before long, Ginny was back in the Burrow and the summer days were easing idly by. For a long time the world beyond their four walls lay quiet; it was easy for the Weasley children to forget that darkness had stolen back into the world. Ginny's little collection grew as she discovered Muggle poetry and stories; she spent hours recording them as she sat by her window, or under her maple tree in the meadow. In her spare time she took up knitting, intent on making herself a good scarf. _

_ They all had one thing to look forward to—both Harry and Hermione had been allowed to spend the last days of summer with them. Hermione promised to bring stacks of storybooks for her to pore through, and Harry—well, she would see him again. That wasn't too bad either._

_ To be honest, that day had somewhat crept up on her. She had spent most of her time in the meadow, writing and drifting on daydreams. It was here that Harry found her, in a manner she least expected. She woke up to find him flipping through her book, and tripped all over herself trying to make herself presentable._

_ It was the oddest feeling, running into him that way, like they were two different people meeting for the first time. She was surprised to find he'd grown taller, and his voice had gotten a bit deeper. She liked the sound of it. But what surprised her most was that they were actually talking, having a real honest-goodness conversation—about books and stories and other trivial things. They talked some more the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. Soon they were playing wizard chess, arbitering arguments between Ron and Hermione, and even sitting on the porch, watching the clouds go by. She had never imagined how these little activities could seem so extraordinary, or so new._

_ 'I really shouldn't think about him so much,' she told herself. 'This might end up like Third Year all over again.' But when he spoke with her, when his eyes held a friendly light, she found it impossible not to._

_ In the days that followed, Ginny began to see new sides to this boy she had once hero-worshipped. He did not like to untie his shoelaces; he'd rather leave them as they were and slip his feet into his sneakers when he needed to. He hated peas, Brussels sprouts and olives. When flustered, he would brush his hair back from his forehead, exposing his scar. And when he thought deeply, he would stay very still, head tilted forward, green eyes unfocused as he stared into the distance. During these moments, Ginny honestly wished she could read his mind._

_ Still later, she made another discovery: Harry knew how to have fun. One of her favorite memories of him was that contest they had on who could wake up earliest to take a bath. That had been her idea, but he agreed readily._

_And at Hogwarts, e__very morning when they met she would greet him as "Mr. Potter," and in turn he'd call her "Ms. Weasley." During meals they would often sit across from each other at the Gryffindor Table and chide each other's table manners._

_"Mr. Potter, do keep your elbows off of the table."_

_ "Your napkin's useful for something, Ms. Weasley."_

_ And he would often tease her: "I know I'm supposed to get you something, but I just can't remember what they are..."_

_ "Creampuffins!" she'd yell, "They're called Creampuffins!"_

_ And he'd laugh. Ginny had come to cherish his laughter, since as the year wore on, she rarely heard it anymore. Especially after October, when he had that nightmare._

_ If she closed her eyes, she could still remember how she'd followed him __to that willow tree by the lake, while the last dandelions were fading into the autumn breeze. She'd held his hand without any self-consciousness, comforting him, waiting for him to say what had hurt him so badly he needed to be alone. _

_ He hadn't told her, but there was that promise that he would someday, when he was ready. That had been enough for the meantime. _

_ She smiled, remembering how she picked up a dandelion and asked him to make a wish. It had seemed appropriate, she realized now, because one of her own wishes had indeed come true: they'd become good friends._

_ Strange how some things can come at you sideways, when you're not looking._

Ginny looked up from her book. The Great Hall around her bustled with activity as students from all Houses sat down for breakfast. The table before her was laden with food: cereal, oatmeal, bagels, croissants and cream cheese, smoked salmon, and pancakes with twenty different kinds of syrup. None of these appealed to Ginny. She chose a pomegranate from a plate of fruit and picked at it sullenly.

From the corner of her eye, she spied Ron and Hermione sitting together a few feet to her left. The homunculus sat across from them, completely absorbed by the box of cereal in front of it. It seemed particularly cautious of eating—at every meal it was keen on consuming only one kind of dish at a time. Today it looked like it was going to try cereal.

The homunculus looked from left to right, noting how people poured cereal from their boxes into their bowls. It seemed confused with exactly how much milk one was supposed to use, and if sugar and strawberries were necessary or optional. Finally, with the concentration of a Potions student, it filled exactly half its bowl with cereal, added half a cup of milk, a teaspoon of sugar and a single strawberry at the very center of its meal. It stirred experimentally, then scooped up a spoonful and sniffed it. After a minute of this, it gingerly stuck out its tongue to taste.

Before long, it lost its wariness and gobbled up its meal, a pleasant smile of contentment growing on its face. It finished in less than a minute, oblivious to the strange looks Ron and Hermione were giving it. But when it reached for the cereal box of its seatmate, Ron finally cleared his throat. The homunculus, looking abashed, withdrew its hand. Ron simply rolled his eyes.

'It's the same thing all over again,' thought Ginny. Every once in a while, the homunculus would do something bizarre, and Ron would glare or quietly hiss for it to stop. Ginny did little more than watch them and all ready she could tell so much. She had seen them doing their Divination homework in the common room, sitting neither too close together nor too far apart. Gone was the easy flow of complaints and jokes she was used to hearing, only cursory questions about work and the dry scribble of quills on parchment. Once she saw them playing wizard chess—but Ron gave up after the homunculus became preoccupied with wondering at how the chess pieces moved, rather than actually playing. Her brother treated the homunculus like a boring distant cousin whom he had no choice but to keep an eye on. The scenario was always like this: he and Hermione would walk together, sometimes hand in hand, while the 'Harry' trailed behind them, contemplating his surroundings.

Thankfully, no one else seemed to notice these oddities. 'How could they?' thought Ginny, gazing at the homunculus. The illusion was perfect to the casual onlooker. It possessed Harry's face, his expressions and his mannerisms; when flustered, it would even brush back its hair to reveal that jagged scar.

But no one could see how its laughter came a split-second late when someone cracked a joke, and that there was no real mirth in its eyes. No one could see how carefully it listened to someone talking, as if it were trying to decipher hidden codes behind the simple words. No one could understand that the look in Harry's eyes was detached and pensive, not a constant state of wonder at his surroundings. Indeed, even the simplest sight could capture the homunculus' interest. Ginny had often seen it stopping by the window to gaze at the shores of the rippling lake, or stare at sunrays highlighting the dusty air.

No one else noticed these things. All they saw was Harry smiling and laughing again, and all's right with the world.

Ginny picked up her books and left the Great Hall. It had been the longest seven days she'd known. And she had seven more to go.

Ginny had arranged to meet with Hermione at two in the afternoon, at a stone bench by the lakeshore. It was a lonely place, isolated by the surrounding trees. Ginny arrived first. She did not have to wait long, though, before she heard brisk footsteps behind her. "Oooooo, that Ron!" Hermione groused.

"What's the matter?" asked Ginny.

Bushy hair jumping, her friend dropped her bag full of books on the bench and sat down. "He...um...found out about something."

"About what?'

"I was keeping notes about ...you know..._him_, and when I left my bag open he saw one of them. Then he confiscated the lot."

Ginny gaped at her. "Hermione! You know you're not supposed to write about that!"

"I know, I know, but...but I'm never going to have another chance like this! When am I going to meet another honest-to-goodness—"

Ginny put a finger to her lips and Hermione fell quiet. Both eyed their surroundings, but the surrounding grounds were empty.

"Ginny," Hermione said, "you should have heard it today! The three of us were sitting on a bench in the courtyard, and I had just asked if anyone remembered what Potion chamomile was useful for. And you know what he did? He recited Professor Cowl's lecture on the uses of chamomile—word for word! He must have a mind like a sponge!"

Ginny simply rolled her eyes. "Look, just don't make any more notes, okay?"

"Oh, all right, all right," she sighed. "So, what did Dumbledore talk to you about when he called you up to his office? It's not about your detention, is it?"

Ginny shook her head. "No, McGonagall finished that with me yesterday. She told me to go to the West Wing garden today, at three o'clock. I'm supposed to help someone pick elderberries." She paused and stared out at the lake. The sunlight flashed on the onrushing waves.

"So why _did_ he ask you to meet with him?" asked Hermione.

_"I asked you here so we may discuss something important, Miss Weasley."_

_Professor Dumbledore gazed at her kindly from behind his desk. Still apprehensive, Ginny simply nodded in reply. She been in Dumbledore's office only once in her life, after her ordeal in the Chamber of Secrets. She remembered feeling incredibly small within its vastness, and now she felt no different. As her father used to say, no good ever came from being summoned to an office._

_"Before we begin, however," Dumbledore went on, "I believe I should reacquaint you with someone. Here he comes now."_

_Ginny started as something fluttered above her and settled on the backrest of her chair. She looked up and met the benign gaze of the headmaster's phoenix._

_"Surely you remember Fawkes?" said Dumbledore. "He certainly remembers you."_

_Dumbledore didn't even need to ask. Fawkes was easily one of the most beautiful creatures she'd seen in her life—of course she remembered him. _

_"H-hello, Fawkes," she said. The phoenix whistled its reply, sounding like raindrops falling on crystal chimes. Hearing its melody somehow put Ginny at ease._

_Meanwhile, Dumbledore had uncapped a jar on his desk. "Would you care for some sweets, my dear? I heard you were partial to Strawberry Creampuffins. As it turns out, I have some right here." He reached into the jar, picked up two Creampuffins, and set them on a piece of paper in front of her. They lay flat on their backs, however. "My apologies. The enchantment seems to have faded all ready."_

_"I'm-I'm fine with them, sir," replied Ginny. "Please don't trouble yourself with me."_

_The headmaster retrieved a Chocolate Frog from the jar. "Fawkes likes Creampuffins himself, did you know that?"_

_"He does?" Ginny looked up at Fawkes again, who was eyeing the candy intently._

_"Quite. An utter glutton for them, I'm afraid. But, you see, he is also a complete gentleman. If our guest does not eat, he won't either."_

_"Oh." Ginny took the Creampuffins in her hand and offered one up to Fawkes. The phoenix sang a single note of pleasure before snatching the candy from her hand. Ginny giggled and took a bite from her own._

_Dumbledore smiled at them. "Now, Miss Weasley…"_

_"Please sir, call me Ginny."_

_"Well, thank you. Now, Ginny, I summoned you here because I need to speak with you about some important matters, matters meant for your ears alone. To ensure our privacy, I would like to cast a Security Charm on my office. Is that all right with you?"_

_When Ginny nodded, Dumbledore stood up and traced patterns in the air with his wand. Then, almost as if time had fallen asleep, the room darkened and all other sounds faded to silence. _

_The headmaster sat down. "Now then, to business. Firstly, you needn't worry: you are in no trouble of any sort. But I must stress the gravity of our discussion, and that it must not leave this room._

_"Ginny, Harry came to visit you the night he left, did he not?"_

_Stunned, Ginny could not think of anything to reply. The look on her face, though, was enough for the headmaster, who nodded to himself and settled back into his chair. Suddenly she did not feel like eating candy._

_"H-how did you know, Professor?" she asked. _

_The old man scratched his beard. "Let's just say Harry sometimes has trouble noticing things that are right in front of his face."_

_"As things stand," he went on, "I am in a bit of a bind. None of us involved have anticipated he would speak to you about this..."_

_"I'm terribly sorry, sir."_

_"None of this is your fault, my dear. It simply goes to show I had not been as observant as I thought I was." He leaned forward. "But here is the crux of it, Ginny. While Harry is not in Hogwarts, he is extremely vulnerable. Therefore, no matter what, _no one else must know he has gone_. Do you understand?"_

_"Yes, sir."_

_"So, I trust you will be discreet about this matter?"_

_"I will, sir. I promise I won't risk Harry's safety."_

_Dumbledore smiled again. "Excellent. But then, I expected no less from a child raised by Arthur and Molly." He paused, then said, "Perhaps, if you are amenable to the idea, there is a way to turn this little problem into an opportunity… _

"He asked for my help," Ginny said to Hermione. "He asked if I could help…_it_…to adjust to life in Hogwarts. So it could complete the disguise. It would be easier if it had more people it could relate to, more…"

"Friends?" finished Hermione.

Ginny lowered her eyes and said nothing.

"And what did you say?"

"I couldn't think of anything to say. I just nodded. Then he let me go."

Hermione reached for her hand. "You don't want to do it, do you."

Ginny shook her head, eyes still kept low. "Hermione, imagine if everything you shared with Ron, every little memory and detail he knows about you, were put in someone else's head. Would you ever be comfortable around that person?"

"I see your point," Hermione conceded. "I'm sorry this is really hard on you, Ginny. And I'm sorry for not seeing how upset you were about the whole thing. I wish there could have been some other way. Maybe Harry visiting you was a bad idea."

"Oh, I'm all right," Ginny said, smiling a little.

"Very convincing," Hermione said wryly. "Look, Ginny, you must remember this one thing: _it isn't Harry_. It's only a mimic. It's a vessel for his memories, and that's it. So don't worry—in a week it it'll be gone for good."

Ginny did not miss the look of disappointment in Hermione's eyes, but her words did make sense.

"Anyway," Hermione went on, "Harry'll be back before we know it. In the meantime, Ron and I can handle things ourselves."

Ginny gave a snort. "From the way things look, Ron doesn't even want to go near it. I'm afraid people are going to think he's angry with Harry."

Hermione threw up her hands. "Oh, all right, I'll admit that's a problem. Ron's wants about as much to do with it as you do. Honestly, if he could only be more open-minded, see how fascinating it is…"

Ginny, who knew enough to keep her most innermost thoughts private, didn't mention that her friend was more interested in studying the homunculus than getting along with it. Overall, neither Ron nor Hermione were making a terribly convincing portrait of the usual Hogwarts Trio.

'_Maybe that's why Dumbledore asked me to help.'_

That thought stayed with Ginny on the walk back to the castle. But the more she considered the possibility, the more she shrank away from it.

Dumbledore wanted her to help it?

She felt she had every reason not to.

_When did she begin to notice them, those little things?_

_It was January of her Fourth Year when she became aware of it all. Sometimes she thought she imagined seeing them; how people would walk slower and watch them whenever they were together; how other girls glanced at them, sometimes with interest, sometimes with envy. Some whispered and giggled to each other behind cupped hands. Others would regard them with a kind of knowing smile. She would see this smile often on Hermione's face. _

_ "What?" Ginny would ask._

_ "Oh, nothing," Hermione would respond, with the air of one who knew the inevitable when she saw it._

_ Part of Ginny was afraid of what Harry would think about all this, but somehow he never noticed any of it. She felt relieved, but when she laid her head on her pillow at night, she would find herself wondering if, despite her wish of becoming friends, this was as good as it was going to get._

_ "Stop being silly," she'd scold herself. "You and Harry are good friends. That's the best thing there is for you, isn't it?"_

_ But as she closed her eyes, she would remember that time by the lake when she'd held his hand, and how he pulled her into a hug when her Ron and the twins won the first Quidditch match of the year, and how striking he looked wearing the scarf she'd given him for Christmas. What lingered most, however, were those times when she thought she'd see him staring at her; it had only been once or twice, but his eyes had been so intent she'd given anything to know what thoughts lay behind them. _

_ These were all she could think about that day when he walked with her from the library. Hermione had been all tied up with studying for a Charms report, and needed more books to continue her research. As Ron was still practicing for his upcoming Quidditch match, she had asked Harry to borrow them for her, and provided her with a list. Unfortunately, the list measured a foot length, so Ginny offered to help carry the books back to the Tower._

_ It took many minutes of searching and several trips back and forth from their table before they could finally assemble the items on the list. _

_ "Honestly," puffed Ginny. "I'm beginning to think it was a bad idea to befriend a bookworm."_

_ Harry smirked. "At this point I get to say, 'The pot calls the kettle black.'"_

_ "Hey, I'm strictly a fiction reader! I'm not interested in manuals on magical theory."_

_ "No, I guess not. Just story books."_

_ "Yes, just story books."_

_ "And poetry."_

_ "Yes, poetry."_

_ "And a nice big history tome every now and then."_

_ "All right, you've made your point, Mr. Potter," she sighed. "Could you wait a moment? I just need to fix this."_ _She started gathering up her hair to tie into a ponytail._

_ Harry was busy checking his stack. "What for? You look better with it undone."_

_ She'd heard a few compliments from him before, but nothing that gave away his opinion on her looks. This was the only one that made her stop to stare at him. But if he was aware of what he just said, he it didn't show on his face. "I think we've got everything," he mused. "Why don't we go on up to Gryffindor and wall Hermione in with these?" He picked up his stack and started for the exit._

_ Ginny briefly considered tying her ponytail, then let her hands drop. Picking up her stack, she followed him out the door._

_ She noticed something while they were walking in the hall. "Hey, that's not fair!" she admonished. "We agreed I could carry half of the books on the list!"_

_ "Ginny," Harry replied, "we're carrying the exact same number. You've got nothing to complain about."_

_ "You're not fooling anyone, Harry. You took the heaviest ones from my stack while I wasn't looking, didn't you?"_

_ "I didn't!"_

_ "You most certainly did! I specifically remember putting Charming Chants on my stack. How can you explain how it ended up on yours?"_

_ "You're seeing things, Ginny," he laughed. _

_He had been sweating from the strain of lifting the books, and as he laughed his glasses slipped off his face and landed on the books he was carrying. He lurched forward to catch it, only to let out an exasperated sigh as it clattered to the floor. _

_ "Here, I'll get them," said Ginny, smiling. _

_"No, I can do it."_

_"Let me get them, Harry. After all, I DO have the lighter stack." Setting her books on a nearby table, she bent down and picked up his glasses. "That's what you get for acting like such a he-man."_

_ "Are they broken?"_

_ "Fortunately, no, but you ought to tighten these. Hold still."_

_ He did so. Ginny faced him and paused, smiling. There something undeniably sweet about how helpless he seemed, blinking and peering at her, as if he were staring at a mirage or a dream. A sudden tenderness swept though her. If she could only take a picture of him this way._

_ He was still looking at her expectantly. "Ginny, these books aren't going to get any lighter," he said. "Could I have my vision back now?"_

_ "Say please, Harry."_

_ "Please, Harry."_

_ She stuck her tongue out at him, reached over the stack of books, and carefully slipped his glasses back onto his face._

_ Her hands paused as they brushed his skin. His eyes were the greenest green, like the sea near white shores. She smiled as his gaze focused on her. The tenderness did not abate; it grew within her, strong and clear as music in an empty hall. She did not feel self-conscious; there was no urge to run away and hide. _

_ Now she wanted the world around them to disappear. She wanted only to stay like this, close to him, gazes meeting. _

_ On their own accord her fingers slid down from his glasses, tracing the curve of his cheeks. He was looking at her in silent surprise, lips slightly open as if to speak. He did not pull away. As her little finger touched a vein beneath his jaw, she felt the quickness of his heartbeat, and realized hers was no slower. And as the expression in his eyes changed, her own smile faded away. She could neither move nor speak; she couldn't remember where they were or what they were supposed to be doing. Only his eyes seemed real, giving her a look that at once dizzied her and drained the strength from her legs. She could have stood with him in that deserted hall forever, surrounded by a warm space that had no room for words or thoughts, no room for anything except ceaseless wonder. _

_But then he spoke, his voice sounding odd and low: _

_ "Thanks."_

_ That seemed to break the spell. She nodded and stepped back, at once regretting the action. He still looked a little stunned. _

_ He said, "We should…Hermione might be…gotta get going…"_

_ "Yeah," she replied. "Let's."_

_ They began walking again, side-by-side, looking at anything but each other. When they got to Gryffindor Tower, Harry put the books down on her Hermione's table and sat beside Ron, who had come in from practice. Ginny said a quick hello, and before Hermione could notice the look on her face, dashed up the stairs to the dormitory. _

_ She looked back once before she disappeared behind the door._

_ Harry still sat there with Ron and Hermione, a random book in his hands. But his eyes were on her, holding warmth and silence within them. She instantly felt as if someone had taken the bones from her legs, and leaned on the doorknob for support. It swung in for her and she almost spilled onto the floor. _

_ She looked about wildly, but there was no one around. She ran to her bed, threw herself facedown on it, and flung a pillow over her head. She lay unmoving for many minutes, warm all over, as if she had drunk a glass of heady wine. She'd thought she had put these feelings aside for something more lasting. It surprised her now they'd been there all along, waiting to be rediscovered. _

_ After a while, she turned herself on her back and looked up at the canopy of her bed. Now that she had the time and space to catch her breath, she could feel embarrassed about the whole thing. But oh…if she could only will her memories into shape and form, she would keep them beside her pillow, to look at everyday._

_ "Harry," she sighed, closing her eyes._

_ In the weeks that followed, Ginny found she was no longer sure about what exactly her relationship with Harry was. She had no basis by which she could judge it, no experience to serve as a beginning. Were they more than friends? Were they becoming like Ron and Hermione?_

_ They had somehow forged an unspoken agreement to try and go on as before. The awkwardness was there, though, from the moment they met each other's eyes at the Great Hall to the moment one of them thought of something to say. They still greeted each other with the ritual "Mr. Potter" and "Ms. Weasley," and once a conversation started it would be the usual free-flow of jokes and anecdotes. But sometimes there would be the awkward pause, then their gazes would refuse to meet, until someone came up with a new subject. She found she could not look at him for very long, as if he were too bright to gaze at directly. Her nervousness would form a tight lead ball in her stomach each time he looked at her. 'Come on, Ginny,' she would scold herself, 'you're not a First Year anymore! Stop trying to shrink into your seat each time he tries to talk to you!'_

_ Ginny wanted nothing more than to tell Hermione about what was happening between her and Harry, but stopped herself each time. She had no doubt Hermione would help somehow, but Ginny felt it was too soon to talk about it. Maybe it was wiser to sort her feelings out first._

_ She recalled that look on his face back in the hall. No, she couldn't have misread it. It had to be. He must feel the same way. That's why they were both nervous. That's it, isn't it?_

_ But a day passed, and another, and another, and still neither one of them spoke about the incident in the hall. Before long, February arrived. A warm breeze started to blow, and the stalactites on the roof edges dripped cold tears on the castle stones._

_ Ginny noticed none of these things. One thought occupied her mind—Valentine's Day was fast approaching, and she didn't know what to do about it. Should she say something to him? Should she get him something? Or should she wait for him to act first? But then, what if neither of them did anything? _

_ She let the days pass, because waiting seemed to be the easiest solution. Soon, however, her worries were overtaken by a different kind of disquiet. Harry was starting to act strangely._

_It was subtle at first, not as if he just stopped paying attention to her. He talked with her often, always meeting her in the morning, ready with a story he'd heard somewhere. But the more they spoke, the more Ginny became aware of their silence. It only gaped wider with each passing day; the more Harry talked, the less he seemed to be saying. Sometimes their conversations run dry and empty, like rivers that turning into trickles in the dust._

_She once asked, "So, how's Ron doing with Quidditch practice?"_

_"Same old story," he replied. "He keeps complaining about how the twins are working him to the bone."_

_"Oh, that's not good."_

_"No, it isn't."_

_"Not good at all."_

_"No."_

_A short pause._

_"So," he asked, "It looks like you've been studying hard lately."_

_"Oh, not at all. I've got loads of free time to spend, actually."_

_"You do?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Oh. That's good then."_

_"Yes. Well."_

_"…"_

_Ginny hated it, hated it worse than keeping quiet. More, she hated how he seemed to maneuver things so they were always together with Ron and Hermione. Unlike before, he no longer seemed to be comfortable being alone with her. _

_Now she was even less sure of the situation between them. That day in January had changed everything; the normalcy they had was gone and she didn't know how to get it back. But neither could she find the courage to move forward. __If she were to confront Harry, what would happen__? How would he react?_

_ So still she waited, and waited. Until one February morning, Harry stopped talking altogether._

_ When she met him at the Great Hall, he did not reply to her usual greeting of 'Mr. Potter.' He only nodded, then turned his attention back to breakfast. Her attempts at conversation were met with a marked disinterest, and anything he said always fell short of the usual warmth she had grown accustomed to. After a few minutes, he abruptly got up and said, "I've got to go now. Professor McGonagall wanted to talk to me about something." He did not elaborate, but collected his books and simply walked out of the Great Hall._

_ Bewildered and wondering, Ginny watched him go. This wasn't like him. Was it something she said? Something she did? Something she didn't do?_

_ When his behavior did not change over the next two days, her doubts doubled. What did she really know of Harry's feelings? What did she really see in his eyes that day he walked beside her from the library? Did she imagine it there? Did he really like her the way she liked him? How in the world could she be sure? _

_ The questions taunted her endlessly, until one night she found the pain of keeping silent had surpassed the fear of speaking out. There was only one way to know how Harry really felt._

_ She came down the Great Hall for breakfast the next day, fully intending to find out. But Harry was not at his usual place at the Gryffindor Table. She waited a little while longer, but soon the Hall was nearly full and he was still nowhere in sight. She craned her neck to look over the heads of the other Gryffindors, and soon spotted Ron and Hermione coming towards her. Before she could say anything, Hermione asked, "Have you seen Harry?"_

_ Surprised, Ginny shook her head. "I thought he'd be with you."_

_ "He's not," Ron replied. "Neville said he saw him get up early. He took the Firebolt from beside my bed. Thought we'd catch him here, but…" he trailed off, exchanging a worried glance with Hermione._

_ "He'll come for breakfast," Hermione said, to put them at ease._

_ Harry proved her wrong, however. There was no sign of him at all that whole morning. Though Ginny wanted nothing more than to look for him, she had no idea where to start, and her first class was about to begin. _

_ She languished through the day, terribly aware of the trickling of the hours as she moved from class to class. After each period she would search the crowd for any sign of that familiar, messy crown of dark hair. But she never caught sight of him._

_ Finally her last class ended, and Ginny ran up to Gryffindor Tower to deposit her bag. Harry was not there and no one had seen him. Ron and Hermione were nowhere to be found either; most likely they were looking for Harry. More worried than ever, Ginny left the dormitory and began searching through the halls of Hogwarts. _

_ It was near dark when she finally caught up with him. She had been walking through a deserted hallway in the castle's north wing. She had never been in that place before, but her concern for Harry overshadowed any fear of sanctioned areas. The hallway seemed a mile long, lined to her left by tall glass windows framed by ochre curtains. Just ahead, however, the windows gave way to a series of glass doors that opened to a wide balcony. Ginny approached one door and peeked through._

_ Beyond the glass she saw a small garden. The flagstone floor was swept clean of snow, but puddles had formed here and there, reflecting a lush blue sky. The hedges were still bare, waiting for the first blossoms of spring. In the center of the balcony stood a small elm tree ringed by a low stone partition. Sitting on the ring, a racing broom clutched in his hands, was a lone boy. Harry._

_ Ginny's felt her insides lurch as she pressed her hands against the frosty glass door. She reached for the golden doorknob, but paused as her hand touched it. _

_If he needed to be alone so badly, was it right that she disturb him?_

_ Déjà vu struck her then. She had asked herself that question once, on a grassy hillock beside the lake. She had made the right decision then; she would make the same one now. More, she had promised herself to end this uncertainty between them. She had to do it today, while she had the courage. _

_ 'Harry comes first,' she told herself, 'I'm responsible for him, too.' And she opened the door and stepped onto the balcony._

_ The air was chilly, promising mist. Harry sat facing the view and did not see her enter. He held the Firebolt upright in both hands, his forehead touching the handle. His eyes were half-closed and unaware, but he turned to her when she approached._

_ "Hi," she said, and barely stopped herself from following it with "Mr. Potter." She smiled, hoping to evoke the same from him._

_ Harry remained silent._

_ "We've been looking all over for you. Ron and Hermione must've organized a search party by now. I certainly hope you didn't miss your classes." 'I'm sure I did,' she mentally added. 'I didn't hear a word of what my professors said because I was worried sick about you.'_

_ Again he said nothing. His eyes remained expressionless._

_ She said, "Wow, you could see for miles up here! And it's so quiet and peaceful. I guess that's why you came up here to think. You…must have a lot to think about, right?"_

_ He spoke at last, his voice low and toneless. "Not really. I just wanted to try flying again. That's all."_

_ "Oh. Did you…did you enjoy yourself?" _

_ Harry shrugged. "I'm done now. Guess I'll head back to Gryffindor." He got up and walked past her. The click of his shoes sounded like the locking of doors._

_ "Wait!"_

_ Harry stopped and looked back at her, his eyes emptier than the air between them._

_ '_Harry, won't you tell me what's wrong?' _The words sounded so easy in her head. Now was the time to ask. She wanted to help him, and she wanted to be close to him again. If he had problems, she could offer to share them. If only he would reach out to her…_

_ She drew a deep breath and opened her mouth to speak. But the words came out horribly wrong._

_ "I was hoping…that is, if you want to, we could…go to Hogsmeade again. J-just the two of us. You know…like old times. We could, we could go to The Three Broomsticks, or sit beside the lake…and talk. Maybe you…would you like to…for, for V-Valentines?"_

'Oh no, oh no no no no no no no no no…!'

_ She tried to think of something else to say to cover up her mistake, but he spoke first, shattering all her thoughts._

_ "Why?"_

_ For several seconds, Ginny was too shocked to reply. Then she blurted out, "Because it's been so long since we talked! I mean really _talked_! It's like we hardly even know each other!"_

_ "Talk about what?"_

_ "Anything at all! Harry, are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong?"_

_ "I'm not mad. Why would I be?"_

_ "Then won't you tell me what's bothering you?"_

_ "Nothing's bothering me." He turned and started for the door again._

_ "Harry, please!" She stepped forward, closing the distance between them. "You don't talk, you don't meet with your friends, you don't even say hello anymore! Won't you tell me what's wrong? Is it your scar? Are you having nightmares? Is it—"_

_ Before her hand could reach his arm, Harry whirled to face her. His eyes were emerald knives. "THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH ME! NO, IT ISN'T MY SCAR OR MY DREAMS OR ANYTHING THAT HAS TO DO WITH YOU! ARE YOU SATISFIED NOW? DON'T YOU EVER JUST SHUT UP!?!" _

_ He turned on his heel, stalked through the doorway, and vanished into the dark hall._

_ The evening had come at last. Above, the last orange hues had faded from the sky, and the first stars were taking their places. Mist began to roll in from the hills and spill onto the Hogwarts grounds._

_ Ginny was aware of all this as she stood there in the balcony. All her other thoughts, however, refused to make sense. She shivered, though not from the cold. "I'm not going to cry," she said, as if to command herself. But a numbness was spreading from her heart to the rest of her body, robbing skin of sensation, so much that only when the gaping doorway before her vanished into a haze did she realize there were tears in her eyes._

_ She clenched her fists and tensed her legs, trying not to shudder. "I'm not going to cry," she repeated. "I'm not going to cry. Please, don't let me cry. Not over this, not over this, not over _him_."_

_ She bowed her head as the first drops landed on the cold flagstone floor._

Ginny she stared at an empty page of her book, then set her quill down and gazed out the window beside her bed. At last, after several days, the words had finally run dry. What was there left to say?

'An epilogue, I suppose,' she thought. She had resolved never to speak with him again. For days she refused to even look at him, and for a while her indifference was being returned in kind. It would've probably been easier if things stayed the same, but last week, after months of silence, he had come to her at last. He offered apologies but not explanations. She accepted them in words if not in her heart. If her resentment still lingered, like frost that wouldn't melt with the spring, so what? So what if it wasn't like her to be so unforgiving? After all, he'd hurt her badly and he hadn't even said why. He hadn't told her exactly what she meant to him, if she meant anything at all.

_'Did you get tired of me, Harry? Did you think it's too much trouble to be with such a careless, graceless girl? Why couldn't I've known better? And why, why, WHY do I always wear my heart on my sleeve?'_

At last, Ginny opened her bureau and put her book away. She had thought all these things before, and it was useless to go through them again. She could lose herself with the mindless task at hand. The thought did little to cheer her, but it was better than nothing.

She left Gryffindor Tower and arrived at the West Wing gardens at precisely three o'clock. The balmy autumn afternoon and the clear sky above promised a comfortable hour's worth of menial work. The place was not as well manicured as the rest of the castle grounds; it seemed as if Nature had been allowed a free hand here instead. The grasses grew tall amidst the trees while dried leaves and white stones littered the short dirt path before her. The trail ran down several yards from the castle, past a pair of aged acorn trees, to a peaceful little grove of elders. At the end of the path, a longhaired figure clad in a purple work robe stood facing the grove. 'My partner, obviously,' thought Ginny.

She picked her way down the path towards the figure. As she approached the grove, her eyes grew round in wonder. Rainbow-colored mushrooms, some as tall as the socks she wore, formed a fairy ring around the patch. Despite the autumn season, the arrow-shaped leaves of the elder trees still glowed a healthy green. Was this place under some kind of spell?

The girl stood at the edge of the fairy ring, a straw basket in either hand. Her long hair was tied back in a sleek, ebony ponytail. She was merely standing there, but Ginny noticed how straight and tall she looked, like the portrait of a queen.

"Hello," called Ginny, approaching her. "Are you here to pick elderberries? I was sent to— "

The words died on her tongue as the girl turned around, and she found herself face to face with Cho Chang.

Ginny froze in mid-step, feeling as if she had just swallowed a lead weight. 'Oh _no_,' she thought, 'I don't believe this!' The two of them stared at each other for an uncomfortable minute.

"I'm sorry," said Cho, looking apprehensive, "I thought I was going to be alone today."

Ginny forced her mouth to work. "W-well, Professor McGonagall thought you might appreciate some help, so she sent me here..." And inwardly, she fumed, 'How in the world am I going to stand one hour working with _her_? Of all the people in the Hogwarts! As if spending the day slipping in and out of depression wasn't enough!'

"Professor McGonagall asked you?" inquired Cho. "That mean's Professor Dumbledore…but I all ready told him I'd rather…"

That surprised Ginny. "Professor Dumbledore? What do you mean? What does he have to do with this?"

"Um, no…it's nothing. Don't mind me." Cho put a basket down and offered her hand. "I'm pleased to meet you. My name's Cho Chang."

'I know,' Ginny mentally groused, noticing how white and delicate Cho's skin was. She shook hands out of pure reflex. "Nice to meet you too. I'm—"

"Ginny Weasley, correct?"

Ginny blinked. "Um, have me met before?"

"No, but you know Jane Ryemark from Hufflepuff, don't you?"

Ginny remembered her. Jane was a quiet, mousy girl who used to come to the study groups she had organized back in Third Year. "You know Jane well?"

"We come from the same neighborhood," replied Cho. "Jane's told me a lot about you. She swore that the only reason she passed Potions in Third Year was because you created funny mnemonic devices for the recipes in the final exam."

Ginny blinked again. "She told you that?"

"Yes. Let's see if I remember one—ingredients for the Slowfalling Potion: 'Boil Malfoy in cauldron till He Tenders Up Quite Nicely' means Buckwheat and Mottlewood in cauldron first, followed by Half a Teaspoon of Undiluted Quicksilver and lastly a Numfeather. That's about right, isn't it?"

"Um, yeah."

"Jane said you had a way with words."

Ginny forced a smile. 'Why, why, why did Cho Chang have to find out about me through a stupid little thing like that?'

"A good thing Malfoy never heard it," Ginny quipped. "He'd have a different opinion altogether."

"I guess he would."

Ginny kept her smile plastered on her face, trying to come up with something more to say. Cho preoccupied herself with plucking a loose straw from her basket, then she looked up again and said, "Well, I suppose we should get started. Here." She offered the other basket.

Relieved, Ginny accepted it. "Lead the way, then."

The grove had a dozen trees scattered within the fairy ring, their branches drooping within easy reach due to the weight of the clustered berries. Chrysanthemums ran rampant along the circling toadstools, and nearby, Ginny could hear the gentle buzzing of lazy bees. As they stepped over the fairy ring, she wondered again if the grove was indeed enchanted.

"I've seen this place from a window," she said, "but never up close. It's quite pleasant, isn't it?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes it is," said Cho, without looking back.

"So, what are the berries for?" she pressed.

"Hmm? Pardon?"

"The berries," repeated Ginny, the tiniest twinge of exasperation in her voice. "Do you know why McGonagall needs the elderberries?"

"Oh, she doesn't need them herself. I do. I come here every year to pick them. Dumbledore knew that, so he probably asked Professor McGonagall to send someone to help. I all ready told him I was fine by myself, but I suppose he insisted."

'Great,' Ginny said to herself. 'I've been pressed into becoming Cho Chang's servant for a day.'

"Why do _you_ need them, then?" she asked.

Cho hesitated, then replied. "I'm going to make wine."

"Really? Sounds like advanced magic." '_And incredibly bourgeois_,' she silently added.

"I won't be using magic. I'll be doing it by hand."

That took Ginny back. "By hand?"

"It's not complicated, but it's a lot of work." Cho stopped beside an elder tree and took out a pair of clippers from the basket. "First, I'll need to mix the berries with sugar, water, and wine yeast, then let it settle for a week. Afterwards, I have to strain the mixture into jars and leave them alone for a few months so the wine can ferment."

"It _does _sound like a lot of work."

"It's mostly waiting. And you'll never taste a better wine once it's done."

"Will you sell it? The wine?"

"I—no. I won't be selling it." Cho's eyes flicked towards her before turning away. "The air smells nice because of the flowers," she said abruptly, "but try not to crush any leaves or you'll change your mind fairly quickly."

"I'll…remember that," Ginny replied, and thought, 'I wonder what she's so uptight about.' She picked up her own clipper and began snapping off the berries from the nearest elder. They worked in silence for several minutes, cutting off bunches from soft stems and placing them in their baskets. Soon they each took separate paths, wandering from tree to tree.

'This isn't so bad,' thought Ginny, wiping her brow. 'At least the weather's nice, and the task's not hard.' She looked down at her collection. Half an hour's work had filled only a quarter of her basket. 'Of course,' she sighed inwardly, 'she just had to bring an enchanted one.'

To her left, a curious chipmunk poked its head out from a pile of leaves to stare at her. Ginny idly picked a berry from her basket and flicked it in the animal's direction. The chipmunk crept forward, grabbed it, and scuttled off to its secret stash.

Ginny wondered if Cho was doing any better. She threw a casual glance over her shoulder, but the older girl was nowhere in sight. Ginny looked around, and finally spotted Cho's basket on the ground beside an elder. Behind the tree, she could see a section of a long purple work robe.

'Is she taking a break already?' thought Ginny, frowning. 'I hope she doesn't expect ME to shoulder most of the work.'

She was about to turn away when her ears caught a familiar sound, and she paused.

'I must've imagined it,' she told herself. 'I'm sure I imagined it.' But it came again, more distinct this time, and Ginny realized what it was: a suppressed sob. She hesitated a moment, then tiptoed forward a few steps. From her new angle she could see Cho leaning a slender arm against the elder tree. Her pale hand covered her mouth, and she shuddered as she breathed.

Ginny was struck by the unreality of the scene. She couldn't actually be seeing elegant, porcelain-doll Cho Chang standing there, on the verge of breaking down. It simply couldn't be.

'Should I do something? Should I go talk to her?' Ginny almost stepped forward, but stopped herself. 'Maybe,' she thought, 'maybe I shouldn't. Maybe it's more polite to pretend not to notice.'

She edged away, ducked behind a nearby tree, and tried to preoccupy herself with berry picking. The work did little to distract her, however.

_What if she really needs help? What if she's hurt herself, or—? _

'Look, she's Cho Chang. She can take care of herself just fine. And Cho _did_ want to be alone today, right? She said so herself. If she wants to cry, it really isn't any of your business, is it?'

Ginny cut away at the bunch before her, but the stem somehow refused to break. She tugged harder until, finally impatient, she gave it a yank. The bunch broke off with a tiny snap. Ginny grimaced as she looked down at her palm, stained now by the juices of crushed elderberry.

As she stared, a different voice spoke in her head.

_If you're going to be an insensitive clod, you can at least be honest. The real reason you don't want to help her is you simply don't like her. Which means you're only kind to the ones you like, Ginny. Is that what you mean by growing up, then?_

Ginny felt herself redden in shame. Again, the voice sounded just like her mother's.

She carefully peeked from behind the tree. Cho still stood there, looking so lost and alone that at last Ginny was compelled to be truthful: she did feel sorry for her.

"Cho?"

The other girl neither moved nor answered. Ginny put her basket down and quickly approached. "Cho, are you all right?"

Cho half-turned, drawing her hand across her eyes. "I...I think...that is..."

"What's wrong?"

Again Cho didn't answer. Her breath hitched in her lungs as her reddened eyes stayed focused on the tree beside her. Ginny dug out her handkerchief from her pocket and offered it to her. After waiting a moment, Cho accepted it.

"Would you like to sit down for a bit?" Ginny asked. But the other girl vehemently shook her head.

"No!" she said, "I'm sorry, I can't stop. I mustn't stop now. W-we have to gather the elderberries, and quickly."

"I'm sure that can wait!" Ginny insisted. "If you need to rest—"

"I'm fine. I'll BE fine." Cho wiped the last of her tears and fought for composure. "I'm sorry. You don't understand any of this, and I'm upsetting you."

"Upsetting ME?!" Ginny gave her an incredulous look. "Forget me—what about you?"

Cho merely shook her head again. "I can explain all of this later. But for now, please, let me finish this. It may not seem like much, but it's terribly important that I do."

Ginny could no longer think of a reply; the determination on Cho's face told her she would not change her mind. Bewildered, she simply nodded and walked back to her basket. She turned around once to look at Cho. The older girl tried to smile, as if to reassure her, before returning to her task. After a moment, Ginny did the same. They kept on in silence, with Ginny pausing every now and then to give the older girl a look of concern. But that effortless calm had once again settled on Cho's face, a composure Ginny had once thought was simply aloofness.

'What's she been hiding underneath all that?' she wondered, 'and for how long now?'

An hour came and went. Soon the sun began to set, painting the sky with orange and gold hues with its descent. Her task finally done, Ginny rested beneath one of the trees with her basket beside her. A few minutes later, Cho set her basket alongside hers and sat down. It was a quiet moment, with the long shadows of trees stretching on the grass before them, and the sunset filtering through the leaves overhead.

"I must look incredibly stupid right now."

Ginny shook her head at Cho's words. "I'm the one who should be sorry for disturbing you. It's all right to cry if you have to, and to have privacy when you do it. I've always believed that."

"I'm not upset with you," Cho replied. "I appreciate your concern, actually."

"Well, since I'm here anyway, do you want to talk about anything? I mean, well, you don't have to say anything if you don't want to, either." _Déjà vu _struck her. 'Just listen to me talk!' she wondered. 'It's like I'm speaking with Harry!'

Cho hesitated. Two unnamed emotions warred in her dark shifting eyes. Finally, she steeled herself and said, "You deserve an explanation..."

Ginny sat up. This may well be the oddest moment of her life, talking with Cho as if they were friends. But if there was anything of value she had learned to do over the past year, it was how to listen.

"This place..." Cho gestured around her, "this place is full of memories. This was our special place, Cedric and I. We used to come here every year to pick elderberries." She smiled slightly. "You see, Professor Dumbledore loves wine. Cedric found that out when he was in First Year. So he gathered some elderberries here, pressed them into wine, and gave two bottles to Dumbledore for Christmas. The headmaster was so touched by the gift that Cedric decided to bring him homemade wine every year. When I met him during my Second Year, Cedric invited me to help out. Then it became a ritual for me too."

"I-I had no idea," said Ginny. She never imagined the handsome, dignified Cedric Diggory, captain and star of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, doing something so...sweet.

Cho smiled. "I suppose it was easy enough to ask the house elves to collect the berries and ferment the wine for us, but Cedric thought the Professor would appreciate something the giver made with his own hands."

"I can see why Dumbledore liked it so much."

"That's true." Cho shook her head. "I suppose you would've understood Cedric better than I did, Ginny, because it took me a while to see things that way.

"Before, I was...well, let's just say I was quite different from the way I am now. I had no time for things like that. If you asked me then, I'd say it was kind of trivial. All that mattered to me was being good at what I do. I wanted to get into the best school and get the best marks from the best teachers. I wanted to be a Quidditch star, and maybe even get to be Head Girl. I wanted everyone to know who I was, and for a while, I thought I was doing a good job of it.

"But when I met Cedric, everything just turned upside-down. While he was successful in nearly everything he did, he genuinely thought of others first. I've never once heard him refuse anyone who needed help. And he always spoke to me about how lucky we all were to be here in Hogwarts, lucky beyond belief we had so many good people looking out for our futures. He said we were 'living in a miracle.' I guess that's why he was so kind and fair to everyone: he knew we were all living through the same experience, through the same miracle.

"And for the first time, I saw how shallow I was. It never even crossed my mind to be thankful for all this. I'd never even stop to think of people as persons. The only thing that mattered to me—was me! So what if I did well at school, or if everyone knew my name, or if I knew how to catch a Snitch? I didn't have any real friends."

"But you're so popular!" protested Ginny. "I can't believe you didn't have even one friend after all that time!"

"It's rather embarrassing, isn't it," agreed Cho. "I knew a lot of people, but I've never spoken with them the way I'm speaking to you now.

"But the longer I stayed beside Cedric, the more I changed. Did you ever think that could happen, that someone else's life could change your own?"

"I...I don't know," said Ginny. "I've never thought about it."

"I've thought about it a lot, ever since he died."

Cho closed her eyes and settled back against the tree. "It's been more than a year now," she went on, a tremble in her voice. "People I think I'm over it, I've healed. Some days, I think so too. But it all came back when I saw this place again. The grove's still the same, you know; it still smells like summer, and the elderberries are in bloom, waiting to be picked. But I'll be gathering them without him beside me. I won't be hearing him hum his little songs while he worked. And we won't be sitting together afterwards on the grass, holding hands, waiting for the blackbirds to sing."

Ginny felt her throat go dry as tears leaked beneath Cho's eyelashes. But they did not fall this time.

"When I realized all that," Cho said, "I couldn't help it—I just started crying. I'm sorry to have worried you. It's silly of me."

"It's not silly," whispered Ginny. "Not at all."

Cho waited until she could speak again, then quietly said, "I've never told anyone this before. It must sound insane, giving secrets away like this."

"I may talk a lot, but I know how to keep secrets," quipped Ginny. She took on a more serious tone and said, "You don't have to worry. I promise you, I'll never tell another soul."

Cho wiped her eyes and smiled. "Jane was right—you _are_ a very kind person."

Ginny thought back on her earlier impressions of Cho, the homunculus she had been avoiding, and the grudge she still held against Harry.

"Oh," she mumbled, "not as kind as I'd like to be."

They were silent again for a little while, each alone in their thoughts. Ginny could not help thinking of a different boy, someone who'd once called her friend. She hugged her knees, trying to keep herself from recalling.

"You could've stopped, you know," she said at last. "If it hurt too much to remember, you could've just left this place alone."

Cho nodded in agreement. "I wanted to do just that, once. I wanted to put aside all my memories of Cedric. Then, I guess I'd stop crying. Maybe I'd go on as I always had.

"But I…I realized that if I chose to forget him, then Cedric would truly be dead. It would be as if he really didn't mean anything to me. The time we had would all be a lie."

Ginny asked, "Does loving someone have to...hurt so much?"

Cho gazed at her, and Ginny saw complete understanding in her eyes.

"Getting hurt may be hard," she replied, "but Ginny, being afraid of getting hurt, that's even worse. I was like that once." She lifted her head and looked around them. "My mother once told me something: 'True love only blossoms in a seasonless heart.'"

"I don't understand."

"I didn't understand her either...that is, until today.

"Look at this place, Ginny. It's autumn everywhere else, but it feels like summer here. No one knows who made the fairy ring or why it's here, but we do know it keeps the grass and leaves evergreen. So all year long, this grove would always have something to give to anyone who asks.

"When I stood before this place again, I remembered Cedric and all the afternoons we'd spent here. I remembered how we fought and made up, how we shared tears and laughter and dreams…and then I asked myself, if the most precious thing in the world to me were carried away, would I let my heart change? Would I forget love, kindness, joy?

"Of course not; I wouldn't change, I wouldn't forget. I wanted to be alive."

"Alive," repeated Ginny. She understood, clearly now, what Cho was telling her. "Alive like this grove. Alive no matter what the season."

"Yes," said Cho, "and to prove it to myself, I stepped inside the fairy ring to pick these elderberries. Yes, it did hurt, but I was glad it did, because it's part of the miracle, because it meant _he_ meant something to me. It was a good hurt, if you can believe such a thing." Her fingers touched the basket beside her. "Later on, I'll make these berries into wine, and come Christmas I'll give some to the headmaster, and we'll drink a toast in memory of Cedric." She smiled, a calm, soft curving of her lips. "Once I've done all that, I'll know I can live in spite of pain, that I really loved Cedric with my life, and he has never truly gone."

Ginny watched the last of the light glimmering in Cho's eyes, and with these words, she felt something inside of herself ease. She wondered if she could find it in herself to be just as brave.

Knuckling the tears from her eyes, she said, "You know what? I envy you. Cedric loved you. He made you really happy."

"Oh, I know I'm lucky," replied Cho, smiling wider. "I loved him, and that made me most happy."

When they finally left the fairy ring, the last birdsongs were fading quiet in the air, and the hooting of a distant owl announced it was close to nightfall. As they walked up the path to the castle, Ginny turned her head and gave the grove one last look. A hush settled over the grass and trees; even the wind had seemed be falling asleep.

Though Cho tried to dissuade her, Ginny helped carry the berries all the way to Ravenclaw Tower. When they reached the main entrance, a circular wooden portal filled with arabesque designs, Cho turned to her and said, "I certainly talked your ear off today, didn't I?"

"Oh, don't worry about it," said Ginny. "I'm glad we met. You needed to talk, and now that I think about it, I guess I needed to listen."

Cho hesitated, then stepped forward and hugged her tightly. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you so much. If you ever need someone to talk to, please let me know."

Ginny returned her embrace. "I'll remember. And thank you, too."

They bid each other goodbye, and Ginny watched her disappear into the portal before starting for Gryffindor. She passed through the smoky, torch-lit halls, past the stone lions that flanked the main staircase, up the hundred steps to the third floor, through the shadowy corridor that led to the Tower. Her steps were long and steady, and tender thoughts lingered behind her eyes.

She paused in front of the portrait door of Gryffindor and said hello to the Fat Lady.

"Well," said the portrait, studying her, "I daresay you're looking much better now. How are you feeling, dear?"

"I feel great," replied Ginny, grinning. "Will-o-wisps?"

The Fat Lady smiled back and swung in to let her enter. As the light from the Gryffidor common room washed over her like a second sun, Ginny said to herself, 'I can forgive him now.

'He came to see me, to say sorry and goodbye before he left. So it's not as if he doesn't care about me.

'And in the end, what matters most is that I care about him. That won't change. No matter what our relationship will be, I won't ever let that change.'

Today was a day she would not soon forget. She'd tuck it away in a corner of her heart, to remember when the hurt came again. Head held high, the smile still on her lips, Ginny entered Gryffindor Tower.

But she stopped short as she passed through the portal entrance.

The homunculus sat by itself at a table near the window, busy reading a thick book on Aggregate Charms. The moment it saw her come in, it quickly barricaded its face with the tome and hunched down in its chair.

Ginny started to walk across the room to the stairs. But halfway there she stopped, took a deep breath, and turned to face it.

"Hello," she said.

For a moment, nothing. Then the homunculus peered tentatively at her over the top of its book.

"Er…hello," came its quiet reply.

"I…I think you dropped your quill," she said, pointing at the floor beside its chair.

The homunculus tilted its head, then quickly bent down to retrieve the quill.

"Thank you," it muttered, still looking quite bemused.

Ginny nodded, then she made on her way to the girl's dormitory. Most of the other girls there were still awake and chatting amongst themselves. She waved to Hermione, who waved back and resumed writing notes by candlelight.

Ginny washed up, then wrapped herself with her blanket and sat on her bed. Outside her window, the crescent moon had risen high over the far gray hills, a pale sickle cutting through the surrounding dark. The autumn wind picked up again, whispering through the leaves of the forest. She wondered again how Harry was doing, and if he could see the sky from where he was.

'Wherever you are,' she thought, 'please be safe.'

She closed her eyes and imagined a garden in her heart, evergreen throughout the seasons, as she waited for his return.

_To be continued_

_Chapter XI: The Coming of the Cold _

_ "Dreaming. He knew he was dreaming again, the way the world around him seemed so real yet just beyond the grasp of focus. Figures slipped through his vision like fish in a glass bowl: a sinister shadow, eyes like glaring green lamps, double dagger hands reaching out; a tall boy, hair like golden fire, pointing a wand made of moonlight; an old man, one eye round as a coin, whispering to him, "Harry, Harry…"; and lastly that brilliant flashing jewel, redder than Mars, redder than lifeblood, rending his mind and memory to pieces. He dreaded it, that thing and what it contained. Cold fear clutched at his chest and he struggled against his body's lethargy. 'I am dreaming. Dreaming…'"_


	11. The Coming of the Cold

**The Phoenix and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter XI: The Coming of the Cold **

Dreaming. He knew he was dreaming again, the way the world around him seemed so real yet just beyond the grasp of focus. Figures slipped through his vision like fish in a glass bowl: a sinister shadow, eyes like glaring green lamps, double dagger hands reaching out; a tall boy, hair like golden fire, pointing a wand made of moonlight; an old man, one eye stark blue and round as a coin, whispering to him. And lastly, that brilliant flashing jewel, redder than Mars, redder than lifeblood, rending his mind and memory to pieces. He dreaded it, that thing and what it contained. Fear clutched coldly at his chest and he struggled against it. '_I am dreaming. Dreaming…_'

          The Dark Lord jerked awake. For a moment he sat still, shaking and gasping as afterimages swam before his eyes. He was alone, sitting on his chair in the darkened quarters of his tower. He had fallen asleep while watching the hearthfire burn down. It had long turned to ashes, and beyond his window the gibbous moon glowered down at the western sea. 

For many minutes, Voldemort willed the pounding in his chest to slow. He touched his hand to his brow and felt cold sweat. Then, with a snarl, he leaped to his feet, snatched up his chair and hurled it at the fireplace. The chair shattered like a bag of bones. 

_"Yet again this happens!" _

Breathing hard, he paced the room. He had tried everything: meditation, self-hypnotism, dreamcatchers; he had taken various sedative potions that numbed his brain and blurred his thoughts. He had even tried staying awake. Nothing helped. Eventually he would drift off, and then the dreams would come. 

Since he had turned to darkness many years before, he had needed very little sleep, and each time he did succumb he never dreamed. But now he found himself, incredibly, doing both. Not every night, but often enough. He had not thought much of them at first, perhaps an anomaly caused by a sudden return to human form, or maybe some psychic residue unearthed from his former human life. But some of the visions were unfamiliar and inexplicable. Worse, his dreams recurred, clearer than ever, frightening him with their force and mystery.  

And he hated it. He hated how it scared him, how weak it made him feel. There were nights when he would wake up shouting, one hand rising to shield his face from…from something painfully bright. Something red.

"Why?" he hissed as he quickened his pace. "Why is this happening?" His power should be complete, unquestionable. Any sign of weakness, any slip of control, could invite a threat to his rule.

Back and forth he strode, fast enough for his robes to whirl with each turn. He only started having these dreams after his rebirth, but that wasn't enough of an explanation. He had to pin down their source. Were they mere conjurations of troubled thoughts, or something else? Were they premonitions? Omens? Warnings?

Part of him scoffed at the idea. He was no seer. Having traced his mother's lineage far enough into the past, he knew there was not a drop of prophetic blood in his veins. No, these could not be visions. But if not that, then what?

He had to be know. He had to test it somehow. 

Voldemort came to halt, closed his eyes, and tried to call back as much as he could from his dreams. The images flickered in his mind, bits and pieces dredged up from sleep. He examined them like a man sifting through silt for gold.

They came. The hated face of his old headmaster. A girl with flame-red hair. The school, Hogwarts, glittering in the twilight. He would have that place in his grasp, someday.

More visions. A faceless fetus, suspended in a jar. An old man, one eye whirling in his socket (he saw that man once before, the one they call Alastor Moody). A tall boy, this one was unfamiliar, a young sprat with the look of a loon. The still forms of headless angels. A jewel, and that terrible bright light.

Voldemort gritted his teeth. He was going nowhere. These conjurations were meaningless. 

One more image floated up to the surface. A grimy, two-story building, and a sign over the door, swinging in the wind.

_Welcome to the Everglade_

_Hillsdale's finest inn_

His eyes flew open. It was as if someone had struck a match in the darkness of his mind. He tried to draw out more from the memory, but the flame died as quickly as it had come.

_Hillsdale?_ A name of a town? Or was his mind playing another trick on him? No, it couldn't be. He had never been to Hillsdale, or a place called the Everglade. This was something else. He had to find out. _Now_. 

Voldemort strode across the carpeted room and flung open his chamber door. He snatched an unlit torch hung on the wall and set it aflame with a whispered word. He hurried down the short corridor and turned left, opening a side door to the staircase. 

It was, in fact, not quite a staircase. Instead of steps it had vertical steel blades, each a foot wide and an inch thick, jutting out from the circular wall and spiraling down to the lower floor. Each blade was sharp enough to cut through a thick iron chain, but the Dark Lord stepped onto the stairwell without the slightest hesitation. Before his foot made contact, there was a metallic shriek, and his booted heel landed on the flat side of the blade. The next blade followed suit, matching his stride, as did the next. Where Voldemort's boot landed, the blade became vertical, and where it left, the blade shifted back upright. 

After exactly two hundred steps, he came to a door in the wall. He opened it with a wave of his hand and entered. Another whispered word and the lamps in the room all lit, throwing long shadows onto the walls. This was Voldemort's laboratory—or as he called it, his personal playground.

The door was made of bolted ironwood, the floor of cold granite. Long tables divided the room, stacked end to end with alembics, calcinators, mortars, pestles, burners, vials, flasks and glass tubes that snaked from one bloated beaker to another. On the sides of the room, creatures hissed and squeaked and rattled their cages. A steel cauldron, sides burnt gray from long use, stood at the center of the room. Against the far wall was a table with nothing but long needles, and on the wall itself hung one of Voldemort's prized possessions: the last remaining copy of the Torturer's Map. Created in the 15th century by the alchemist Nightgaunt, the parchment was a complete life-sized map of the human nervous system, with all the pressure points painstakingly catalogued with hundreds of tiny flags. Touching a flag caused a note to appear, revealing what striking that pressure point would do. Paralysis, muscle contortion, blindness, stomach cramps, diarrhea, asphyxiation, heart failure, reversal of blood flow, unending agony, madness—each reaction was carefully marked for varying degrees of intensity. Looking at that Map always cheered Voldemort up. Who needs poisons? The human body was already quite capable of self-destruction.

But he had no time for these foibles now. He stalked towards a cabinet and retrieved a parchment case. From it he took out an altogether different map, that of the British Isles. The Dark Lord unrolled it on the floor like a small carpet. From his pocket he retrieved a pouch made of black velvet. He loosened the string and set it gently on the floor beside the parchment.

"Out," he said.

The pouch trembled, then many little black seed-like things marched onto the map. These were insects called groucans, or more commonly, glow-beetles. They possessed a limited sentience in that, provided with a point of reference, they could be trained to remember certain locations.

"Cities," said the Dark Lord.

Chittering mindlessly, the groucans trundled onto the map. In a minute they had all settled into position. Their lower segments began to glow a light blue, and every city in Britain on the map was lit. 

"Towns."

More groucans streamed from the pouch and took positions. This time, violet lights began to glow all over the map. 

Voldemort nodded, satisfied. Now for a final test. He reached into the pouch, caught a lone beetle between his thumb and forefinger, held it up. 

"Hillsdale," he whispered.

He put the beetle on the map, and watched with narrowed eyes as it skittered about its brothers. It crawled over Wales, over Davenport, then stopped in a location some distance from London. There it attacked and tore apart another beetle, took over its position, and began to glow green.  

_There_.

Voldemort exhaled a deep breath he had not been aware of taking. So. It was no figment of his imagination—the place did exist. His dreams contained a kernel of truth. But then, what of it? What did it matter if he had seen that place in his head? What was the significance?

_The old man. The one with the round eye. He whispered a word. It was…_

_"Harry…"_

Voldemort's eyes grew wide. Him? This has to do with _Potter?_

He had to know more. Teeth bared, hands shaking, he strode to the other end of the room. There a candelabra stood on a low cupboard. He grabbed it and blew on the middle candle, which sparked a green flame. 

"Heed me, my servant," he said. "Your master commands you."

The flame flickered at first then flared up. A face, blurry and indistinct, appeared in its core. 

"I am here, lord," spoke a disembodied voice. 

Voldemort held the candelabra closer. In the light his sallow face glowed a sickly lime. "Have you been vigilant in your watch over the school, darkling? Have you kept my command?"

"My lord, no one sees me, yet I see them all. The walls are my ears and the windows are my eyes. I have been watchful, as you have bidden me."

"Very well. Tell me, have you seen the Potter boy today?"

"My lord, I have."

Voldemort brought the candelabra even closer; the heat seared his eyes, but he paid it no heed. "And what has he been doing? Has he gone anywhere?"

"My lord, he does what any student does in this school, and acts the way any student acts. I see him often in the halls and in his classes, walking with his two companions. As for your other question, he has not left the school since the beginning of his term, and that was to go to the Hogsmeade celebration. Beyond that, there is nothing out of the ordinary."

Voldemort relaxed a little. So, Potter was still in Hogwarts. He had not gone into hiding or taken any drastic action. All was still well.

And yet…

"There is nothing strange about him? You are certain?"

His spy paused, then said, "He seems more cheerful than usual, my lord, less burdened by something, as compared to before…"

Voldemort gestured impatiently. "Anything else?"

"That is all, lord."

"Very well. If you observe anything different, report to me at once. Otherwise, continue with your task." He put the candle out with his fingers, then blew on the left branch of the candelabra.

"Gallowbraid."

The candle sputtered before surging into a towering flame, and the sharp face of Andros Gallowbraid appeared before him. He still wore those dark round glasses. For all his faults, the man was a light sleeper.

"My lord Voldemort, this is a pleasure," he said, bowing his head.

"I am sure you find it so," replied the Dark Lord. "I want a report on your progress. Now."

"Everything is going according to your plan, lord. I am planning on paying our friend a visit tomorrow—that is to say, in a few hours—to convince him to side with us. My men are in place and awaiting any instructions to support me, though I doubt I'll be needing them."

"You notice nothing out of the ordinary?"

"I have been careful, lord. No one suspects me, if that's what you're asking."

Voldemort relaxed some more. "Very well. I want another report tomorrow, after your meeting."

"Of course, my lord. Will that be all?"

Voldemort paused. While there was little that could possibly for anything to go wrong, he had nothing to lose with being sure. 

"I have one more task in mind for you," he said. "There is a town, some miles southeast from where you are. It is called Hillsdale. You will send some of your men down there, posthaste."

"I shall, my lord. What shall I instruct them to do?"

Voldemort paused again. "I have received information that our foes may be up to something there. There is nothing definite. Your task is to make it so. Have your men search the place, in particular an establishment called The Everglade. Tell them to be thorough. If there are any wizards there, capture them for interrogation. Kill everyone else."

"Yes, my lord. That will be done."

"Continue with your work. I expect success." He put out the flame and set the candelabra down. 

He stood there in his laboratory for long moments, eyes roaming the cracks of the wall. All his plans were intact, his agents still undiscovered. Like a spider he had spun his trap for the wizarding world, and all he had to do now and then was to test it for weaknesses. So far he had found none. All was well.

"Yes," he whispered to himself. "All is well."

His voice sounded weak and tired to his ears. He left laboratory and walked back to his room. There he sat by his window, watching the sea, willing himself not to fall asleep. 

~~@~~

Lyle Bishop woke up with a start. 

He could tell by soft night wind from the window and by the silence of the lark that it was still far from morning. He had been dreaming, he realized, of his grandfather. It was not one of his sightless dreams, where all he could sense was sound and heat and motion. He had dreamed in shape and color, of being young again, sitting on his grandfather's lap under a summer sun. His grandfather had been telling him stories of the bravest of Aurors, and how the old man's eyes gleamed as he narrated the glorious duels where the Aurors defeated Dark Wizards through wit and skill and élan…

The Commander of the Order of the Phoenix sat up in his chair, stretched his back and rubbed his eyes. He had long ceased to expect to see light whenever he opened his eyes, but he had never lost the habit of rubbing them. "How long was I asleep?" he muttered. 

A feather-light pressure on his shoulder announced Aria's presence. The pixie's response was heavily accented by clicks.

Lyle frowned. "An hour? Damn it, it's three in the morning?" 

He shook his head to clear it, then felt around his oakwood desk. His fingers knocked away the crumpled balls of false starts and middle-ground mistakes and touched a tray on his right. The twenty-seven letters that had taken him all night and most of the morning to write were all neatly stacked there, each sealed with red wax and bound by ribbon. 

He found himself wishing his grandfather was still alive. He would know how to be brave at times like these.

He fingered the unfinished letter before him, then retrieved his wand from his pocket and touched it to the start of the letter. He had made it a habit to check his work. Though he had trained himself to write legibly, he could never be certain of the evenness of his margins and spacing. He drew the wand slowly across the parchment, like a finger feeling engraved words. The letter magically emerged in his mind:

_Mr. and Mrs. Whitewood,_

_I bear sad tidings on behalf of the Order of the Phoenix. It is our deepest regret to inform you that your son, Harold, died in battle last night during a Death Eater attack in Southampton. _

He had stopped here. What more could he possibly say? That the battle was a complete debacle? That Voldemort's monsters had caught them completely unawares? The Death Eaters hardly even fired a shot, allowing their beasts to overrun and decimate the shocked members of the Order. The few who escaped were shaking and near-hysterical. Asked about the rest, one woman whimpered, "In pieces. They're all in pieces." 

This letter was one of the harder ones to write. He had not personally known Harold Whitewood, could not comment on his character or if he had made a good end. He had spent the better part of the night struggling to find the right words. At some point, his strength gave out and he'd fallen asleep.

He sighed and put down his wand. Writing private letters was an alien art, like poetry or painting fruits. Certain people had that talent and he was not one of them. After a moment's reflection, he picked up his quill, inked it, and tried again.

_Harold and his comrades were strong and upright and faithful, but most of all they dreamed of a future where none lived in fear of the Dark Lord, and together they gave their lives for this dream. It deeply saddens us that we have lost many like him, and that since they fell deep within enemy territory, we cannot even honor them with a proper burial._

Lyle knew no amount of sympathizing could comfort these families. Some of them might even blame the Order for their loss. He could not make them change their minds. But in the end, this was this. It would be an insult to the dead if the living could not fulfill what they had started out to accomplish.

_For your loss, we can only give you our deepest condolences, the sympathies of those who have also lost loved ones in this struggle, and the solemn vow that, for however long this war lasts, this terrible crime will not go unpunished._

_Till we meet in brighter times, walk in the grace of the Godland._

_                                                                             Lionel W. Bishop_

Lyle signed over his name. He had long considered and reconsidered if it was a wise thing to do. He had written the letters in Secret Ink: the letters would appear as a blank page if the wrong person opened them, and fade away two hours after the right person did. But there was no assurance that his recipients wouldn't give him away. In the end, though, he decided to trust them. Even if they did report him out of spite, what of it? The Ministry would sooner or later find out about their little black sheep. He wasn't afraid of them. There were graver matters to be afraid of.

He folded up the letter and sealed it. He heard the bustle of paper as Aria laid out a fresh parchment. He was about to begin another letter when someone knocked on the door.

"Commander."

Lyle snapped up straight, twisted around his chair. "Come in, Arabella." 

He heard the door opened as Arabella Figg stepped in. Lyle had long learned to distinguish between her manners of calling him. If she used his name, it was not anything important. But _Commander _meant areport. 

"News from Sirius and Remus?" he asked her.

"No," Arabella, rustling a piece of paper in her hand. "We've just received a coded message from our mole."

It took some willpower for Lyle not to bolt out his chair. "Will you read it for me?" 

Arabella walked towards him, perhaps to hold it to the light. She read:

_"Found their port. Well-guarded. Ghost ship. May lead to Onyx Isle. More creatures disembarked—twenty at least. Awaiting instructions." _

Lyle's heart sank. A ghost ship was the Dark Army's means of transportation? How on earth did they manage to get one? He asked her to read the note again, to be sure he heard all of it, then asked, "Have you told Marius yet?"

"I was about to, but I thought I should tell you first."

Lyle nodded. "All right. Let's go." 

He retrieved his wand and moved to the door, but Arabella spoke up again. "Lyle, I know Dumbledore asked you to write to the families, but he didn't specifically said you should be the one to do it. Shouldn't you leave it to someone else?"

Lyle gave her a sad smile. "This task I'm afraid I can't delegate. I owe it to the dead, Arabella. As their Commander." And he thought, _Dumbledore would have done nothing less. He would have done the same for me, had I also fallen._

"Of course," said Arabella, "I don't question that. It's just that when I see you, you're always so tired. You ought to be getting more sleep."

He entered the hall with wand in hand. He brushed the rings on his fingers briskly; each vibration returned to his wand a stark picture of the surrounding area. Arabella beside him looked like a colorless specter. 

"How about you?" he asked her. "Why aren't you asleep?"

She was fiddling with her sleeves, which she often did. "Well, I just couldn't, I suppose," she said. "I didn't lack for trying. But it's hard when I've got so many of my friends out there right now, staying awake and trying to keep an eye on the Dark Army. And I don't just mean the two-legged ones, mind you." She sighed. "I stay awake for news from our spies, but mostly I just miss my darlings. I hope they'll keep safe."

"Their mistress trained them well. I'm sure they will be."

"Thank you," she said, a smile in her voice. She added, "I can't stop thinking about those letters, and those families who'll get them. I can only imagine what it's like. I don't envy your job at all."

"Nor I yours." He paused, then asked, "Is Marius doing all right with his vigil?"

This time he heard a bite of exasperation in her voice. "Oh, he's being vigilant all right. Last time I peeked in the library, he was sitting in front of the Vision Lamp and looked like he was about to nod off."

"Then let's hope he's a light sleeper."

They arrived before the oakwood library doors, which stood ajar. As Lyle entered, he heard the sound of snoring. He struck his rings together once more and the room sketched itself in his mind. At the center table, a stout old man sat asleep before a lit gas lamp with his head tilted forward. 

Lyle stepped behind the old man's chair. "Mr. Chief Strategist."

Marius jerked awake so fast his monocle popped off his eye. "Sir! Wide-awake, sir! Merely resting my eyes!"

Lyle moved to the chair next to him and sat down. "When it's just us, please call me Lyle. Any news from our captains?"

"Ah, still quiet there so far…at least, I believe so. I'm sorry—must've nodded off…"

"It's all right to rest now and then, Marius. They would've woken you if there was something important."

The old man picked up his monocle and wiped it with handkerchief. "I wanted to keep watch," he said. "Command responsibility and all that. And, well, I suppose I am a little more protective of the younger ones..." 

"More like you wanted to know if your plan worked," Arabella said, sitting down beside Lyle.

"And a good evening to you too, Mrs. Chief of Intelligence," he replied, giving her a mock frown. "I trust you take pride in _your_ vigilance tonight?"

"More so than you, it seems." 

Lyle smiled at this. She had still not forgiven Marius for nominating her as the Order's Commander.

In truth, he reflected as he leaned back in his chair, the Commander's job did not rest solely on him. It took three people to fulfill the roles Dumbledore had left behind. Arabella handled Intelligence: she and her spies stood with their ears to the wind and caught all news of the Dark Army's movements. All reliable information went to Marius, who used it for formulating strategies. The final decisions, however, fell to Lyle. He was the one who decided which plans would serve them best, the one who took final responsibility for their actions. The Order would stand or fall by the decisions they made as a team. Sirius had affectionately referred to them as "The Tripod."

Lyle waited as Arabella read the message to Marius.

"A ghost ship!" breathed the old man. "The Dark Lord has found some worthy allies, indeed. No wonder our mermen friends have trouble finding it. Near impossible to track, I fear. This will take some planning." He nodded to Arabella. "An excellent piece of espionage, my dear."

"Thank you," she replied, "but the credit goes to the agent. I just pushed the pencil."

 "For whatever else you can say of the man," said Marius, "Snape certainly knows his work."

"There is no better choice," Lyle reflected, "than one who best understands the Death Eater mind."

"Indeed." Lyle heard Marius's heavy feet pacing the room. "A ghost ship, hmm? That ensures their mobility over sea, meaning all the coastal regions of Britain are vulnerable. I find it strange, then, that all reports show that our enemy's concentrated his forces in the south. Normally, how you'd go about that is to come into the mainland en masse and push towards the interior to capture the capital. But he's not doing that. Nor is he consolidating his allies, like the Dementors and the giants. What's the Dark Lord thinking? Why's he wasting his time there when he should be expanding his territory?"

"For now, it's the smart thing to do," replied Lyle.

"Pardon?"

Lyle leaned back on his chair. "He's stone-walling the south and quietly staying there, at least for the meantime, because he's taking pains not to give the Ministry any sign at all that this is Death Eater handiwork."

"Absolutely," said Arabella. "He doesn't want the Ministry to know it's really him. Fudge won't be inclined to admit he's back—he'll give some kind of excuse about insurgents or troublemakers of some sort. The Dark Lord knows that and he's playing on it. That way there's no chance for us to make an alliance. He wants to keep the wizarding world off-balance, without a united opposition."  

"Therefore," concluded Lyle, "he's going to wait, at least for now. He knows he's got the upper hand. He'll come for the Order first, then conquer Britain."

"The bastard," muttered Marius. "The only way to get the Ministry on our side, then, is to show some hard evidence."

"By tonight, that's what we're going to get." Lyle leaned forward and turned up the flame of the Vision Lamp. "Captains?"

The fire fanned outwards as the face of Sirius Black appeared on the glass. "Hearing you loud and clear, Commander."

"Glad you're wide awake. What's going on down there?"

Sirius grimaced. "Well, my men have been reduced to slapping themselves to stay awake, the temperature's about 18° and still dropping, and we're fresh out of hot chocolate. It's quieter than a wake out here. Are you sure they're headed this way?"

Arabella said, "Our spies say they spotted a large group heading towards your location. They know we have an outpost there and they're coming to get you."

"Yes, well, are you sure they'll get here anytime soon? They didn't stop for coffee somewhere?"

"Given their present speed, they ought to be right on top of you. That's why _we're _losing sleep over here."

Lyle said, "She's right, Sirius. Keep a sharp eye out or they'll get the drop on you. You two have a reputation to keep, after all." 

"Whatever you say, Chief Crazyhorse."

It was Lyle's turn to grimace. "Mr. Black, I thought I told you not to call me that."

"But it's an excellent codename, sir."

"No, it is _not_." He turned to Marius. "Where in the world did Dumbledore get that name, anyway?"

Remus spoke up from somewhere behind Sirius. "North America, sir. Chief Crazyhorse, chief of the Oglala tribe of the Sioux Native Americans. Famous for the line, 'My lands are where my dead—'

"Thank you Mr. Lupin, that will do." Beside him, Lyle heard Marius and Arabella stifle chuckles. His face eased into a smile and he said, "I want to wish you two good luck. You're the best we have, and we're counting on you to win this one. Don't embarrass me, all right?"

"Don't worry," Sirius grimly replied. "We'll make Voldemort regret he ever set foot on Britain. This I swear."

"We'll get those monsters, all right," agreed Remus, "whether two-legged or four, we'll get them." 

"That will be all, gentlemen," said Lyle. "Keep us informed. Till then, the Godland keep you." He felt the heat dissipate as the Vision Lamp died down.

"Well, what now?" Marius asked him.

"Now?" Lyle sighed. "Now comes the worst part of being Commander. The waiting."

Sirius Black had not slept for the last twenty-four hours, and while his body was starting to feel the fatigue, his mind was not. He was preoccupied with the whereabouts of the Dark Army, and getting more and more agitated as the hours slid peacefully by. 

Their outpost was an abandoned wizarding village called Vespers, located some twenty miles southwest of London. The residents, mostly farmers, were on good ties with Dumbledore, and had listened when the Order asked them to flee from Voldemort's advancing forces. He, Remus and their battalion had been waiting in position since nightfall. Their mission was clear from the start: first and foremost, they were to capture as many of those beasts as possible. These shock troops had been their undoing in the previous battles, swiftly charging into the ranks of the Order and tearing their men apart. Remus had long been investigating the missing Muggles, and now it seemed they had discovered what Voldemort had done with them. Now they had to find out how it happened, and if could be reversed. Second, they also had to capture as many Death Eaters as possible. This was for intelligence purposes—each man could be a source of valuable information on the Dark Army's strategies.

Sirius put the Vision Lamp back on the shelf and sat down at their rickety wooden table. Remus, who was busy journaling, looked up at him.

"So," said Sirius.

"So," said Remus. "The Dark Army's really on its way here."

"That's what Arabella says, and she's rarely wrong."

"I was kind of hoping they'd take a different route."

"'We must rely not on our enemies failing to arrive, but on having ways of dealing with them when they do.' Your words, Remus."

"Sun Tzu's, actually." Remus closed his notebook and looked down. "It's just hard to believe that just yesterday we were having drinks with Lyle in headquarters. And now, here we are, at the frontlines." 

Sirius thought about his letter to Harry, and wondered if it was going to be his last. They were silent for a tense minute, then Remus spoke up again.

"Are we really out of hot chocolate?"

"Sorry, I finished off the last cup an hour ago. It's bloody freezing out here. We'll probably see an early winter." Sirius stretched both arms over his head.

"I hate this," he said. "They could be just outside the village right now, just watching us wait. I hate it."

Remus smiled thinly. "You'd rather be fighting and risking our lives?"

"At least we'd be doing something."

"You're starting to sound a lot like Galino."

"DON'T say that!" Sirius immediately straightened up. "I'm bored—that's my excuse. Galino simply wants to get a lot of people killed. Doesn't matter which side they're on."

"I personally think his skills are wasted as rear guard."

"Well, I'm personally glad you're not in charge, then," retorted Sirius. "Galino's as brave as they come, but he's also bull-headed, narrow-minded and vengeful. It's a good thing Lyle keeps him reigned in. Left alone, he'd likely do something rash."

Remus shrugged. "If you're bored," he said, changing the subject, "then how about we do another inspection."

"Fine," Sirius replied, getting up. "Least we can keep ourselves warm by moving about."

Putting their cloaks on, they left their cottage and made their way to the village square. Vespers was composed of a few closely nestled cottages, only a few of which were two floors high. The cobblestone streets were narrow and well-lit by firefly lamp posts, and farmland surrounded the tiny village on each side. All these things suited their plans perfectly.

The cold air around them was dry and bare of mist. It stole the warmth and moisture from their skins. Sirius looked up at the night sky. The moon was out, and a few stars peered down at them from between the clouds.

"I wonder how Harry's doing?" he said, more to himself than to Remus.

"Hasn't he replied to your letter yet?"

 "Actually, I asked him not to. It's too dangerous." He sighed. "I didn't even tell him where I'm stationed, because I didn't want him to worry."

They turned left into a narrow side street. Ahead of them, the road no longer stretched forward but opened up into a circle some thirty feet across. The houses here nestled together, forming a surrounding wall. At the center of this circular road was a small island ringed by a low hedge. Some of their men were there, sitting on huge boulders half- buried in ground. They saluted when they saw the captains, and Sirius saluted back. This keyhole-shaped area was critical to their plan. The enemy had to be lured and defeated here.

Sirius and Remus approached a house on the right side of the narrow street, before it turned into a circle. Sirius knocked five times on the door, three sharp raps followed by two soft ones. It opened just a fraction, and a rough voice demanded, "How do I know it's really Captain Black, not some dirty Death Eater trickster?"

Sirius casually replied, "Well, Rubin, a Death Eater wouldn't know about the time you got sorely drunk and tried to molest a cactus you mistook for Aliora Syrrh."

There was a short pause, then the voice said in a hurt tone, "Sir, I thought we agreed not to bring that up again."

"Then quit with the airs. Anything to report?"

"All quiet out here, sir. The men are itching for some action, is all."

"We'll be seeing some anytime now. Stay sharp." Sirius and Remus left as the door shut behind them. They crossed to the other side of the street, and Sirius repeated the knock on another door. This time, however, there was no answer.

Sirius tried again. He had no sooner struck his second knock when the door slipped ajar and an arrowhead poked out, aimed at his forehead.

"Do you humans even understand the concept of an ambush?" snapped an irritated voice.

"No need for that, Magorian," Remus hastily said. "We were just checking up on you."

"If our condition interests you," the voice went on, "my comrades and I have been standing for hours in a cramped room that still carries a lingering human stink. Nevertheless we were doing our best to stay out of sight, until YOU decided it a good idea to give our location away, simply to make a social call. I find myself wondering how either of you earned the rank of captain."

Sirius reminded himself there were more genial centaurs like Firenze. "You know," he said, "your attitude does not help the war effort."

"We are here simply because our elders wish us to be. Other than that, we owe you humans nothing. I shall remind you now that not all of us even agree to this alliance."

"Well said. I'll remember that when Voldemort comes knocking on your doorstep."

The arrowhead drew back into the shadows. "Begone. And do not return unless the enemy is yapping at your heels, like the fodder you are." The door was shut in his face. 

"That went well," said Sirius. "At least he didn't call us 'descendants of apes' this time. Maybe he forgot."

Remus, however, looked pale. "You all right?" Sirius asked him.

"It's nothing," he muttered. "Let's just go check the perimeter."

They walked to the outskirts of the village, which was six minutes away from the keyhole area. Men had been stationed in every direction of the compass, and the captains made sure they were still on alert. Throughout the trek, however, Remus kept a pensive silence.

When they finished checking the final post, it was a little past four in the morning. They stopped to rest by the eastern road.

"Well," said Sirius, gazing about at the open fields. "I guess that's it."

"Yes," Remus softly agreed. "I guess so." 

"Shall we head back then? The guards can take care of things here, I'm sure."

When his friend didn't answer, Sirius nudged him. "Remus? Are you all right?"

"I am. I was just thinking…" He turned to look at the town behind them. "It's quite peaceful here, don't you think? Sometimes I can imagine people still living in these houses, asleep in their beds, their children tucked in for the night. There's no one, of course, Dumbledore made sure of that. But…strange how deceptive peace is, isn't it? One moment you're living your life, just trying to get through the day, and the next moment some stranger comes knocking on your door, telling you to evacuate because the Dark Lord's coming. One moment it's peace, in the next it's war. One moment you're a scholar…in the next, you're a soldier."

Sirius did not speak, waiting for his friend to finish. After a long pause, Remus said, "We're worms on a hook, Sirius. Aren't you scared?"

"Yes," Sirius murmured. "I am." 

Remus laughed. There was no mirth in it. "I have to commend you, then, since you certainly don't look it."

Sirius gazed out over the field, where the moonlight glistened on the tall grass. He said, "I can't afford to look scared, Remus. Neither of us can. But I'll tell you this much. A while ago you told me you couldn't believe we're suddenly out here on the frontlines. I had that same feeling just this morning. I realized I wasn't in my bunk anymore in The Summit. I wasn't surrounded by a solid mountain, just flimsy walls, a thatched roof and a handful of men. And somewhere out there, some monstrous thing's just waiting to get me in its jaws. I felt so sick I couldn't get up. I lay there for a long time, wondering how someone as soft-bellied as me ever got to be captain.

"Then a thought crossed my mind—many miles from here, Harry is getting up and going to his classes in Hogwarts. He's doing what he has to do as a student and a young man, never mind the terrible fate he's got hanging on his head. And I realized that given the chance, he'd trade his life of peace there to take my place here. He wouldn't even think twice about it, if it would keep me out of harm's way. 

"And when I thought that, I found myself getting out of bed and putting on my boots. I was still scared, and I still am. But not scared enough to run and abandon Harry to the Dark Lord. That's why we're here, Moony. We didn't choose to be, maybe that's true. But we have to be, just so the people that matter to us get a chance for a future." 

Remus silently regarded him. Then he smiled. It eased the lines on his face somewhat, making him look younger. "You're know what, Padfoot?" he remarked. "You almost sound like James."

Sirius laughed. "Yes, I'm glad you like my impression of him. It took me years to come up with that one."

"Don't flatter yourself," chuckled Remus. "The delivery wasn't that good." 

"Oh no? Well, should we ever see him again I'll—"

A sudden biting gust blew in from the east, and the moon slipped behind a cloud. The long grass of the field beside them rustled in the wind. Sirius fell silent, shuddered, and realized it was not from the cold. Something icy gripped around his heart. It must have shown on his face, because Remus suddenly said, "Sirius?" 

Sirius turned to face the wind. The grass still whispered to itself in the darkness, and the shadows shifted to and fro beneath the hidden moon. 

"Sirius, what is it?"

"I—" _don't know_, he was going to say. But he knew how to find out. In an instant he had Transfigured and leaned into the wind, ears cocked and nose held high. He heard the sound of heavy feet a bare second before the stench of sweat and dried blood assaulted his nose. He snarled at the darkness, hackles raised in warning.

Remus did not hesitate. He drew his wand and fired into the air. The white flare scattered into sparks, illuminating the field. They landed on gaps on the grass, and the colors began to shift and fade as Disillusionment Charms were abjured. And they saw them—hulking figures in the gloom, their eyes glowing beneath the sudden light. Beyond them, the silhouettes of hooded figures. 

Remus shot a red flare, crying out at the top of his lungs—

"HERE! SOUND THE ALARM! THE ENEMY'S HERE!"

Sirius's barking joined his warning. Some thirty yards away from them, snarls rose up, commands were shouted in the dark. The beasts ceased all attempts at concealment and charged, roaring and clawing through the field. Remus aimed and fired his wand at the grass. A wall of flame ignited from the ground, momentarily blocking the Dark Army. As one, the two captains turned and charged down the path into the village. 

Sirius did not bother returning to human form, nor did he look back to see how many were behind them. He would not lose one precious second of his run. He sprinted as fast as he could without leaving Remus behind. Behind them he heard the crackle of the burning grass and the heavy thuds of bodies landing on their side of the flaming wall. A greenish bolt of energy shot over their heads, missing Remus by scant inches. 

An answering shot came from ahead of them. Four of their guards had emerged from their stations, faces white in the lamplight. They returned fire at the approaching enemy, but Remus shouted, "Forget it! There're too many! Just run!"

 They rushed past the guards without slowing down, and their men fired another volley before they too turned and fled. Together they ran, down the lamp-lit road, light, shadow, light, shadow. A few bolts whistled past them, but they were already deep amongst the houses, where the winding streets made them difficult to see. But the sound of the approaching beasts drew closer, close enough for Sirius to catch the scraping of claws on stone. They were the Death Eater's hunting pack, and could not be evaded for long.

Another one of their men had stumbled into the street. Sirius caught the look of surprise in his wide, bleary eyes before they shot past him. Remus yelled a warning, but it was breathless and unintelligible. A moment later he heard shots as the man fired his wand, then his footfalls as he too turned and fled. A scant second later, a hoarse cry that was quickly cut off. Sirius did not look back—the images in his head were horrible enough. It gave his legs renewed strength and he nearly pulled ahead of their group. Terror flooded his heart to near euphoria—he'd never felt so alive.

At last, the bend at the road came into view, signaling the entrance to the keyhole area. They turned into it, skidding and slipping as they ran. Six of their men were already assembled at the far end, wands drawn. The captains sprinted across the circle, leaped over the hedges and stones in the island, and finally halted before their battalion. Remus collapsed and one of their men caught him. Sirius returned to human form and finally turned back.

The hunting pack came into view as he did so. They slowed down as they saw the battalion, and came to a halt at the mouth of keyhole. For the first time, Sirius and Remus laid eyes on Voldemort's creations. 

There were eight creatures in all, down on all fours and covered in filthy, matted hair. Some resembled apes, others had long, doglike snouts and snub tails. Their pointed ears were cocked forward, their huge hands clawed at the ground in anticipation. Their eyes, burning and hateful, glared hungrily at the men. Strange crimson lines stained the fur of their cheeks, touching the curled lips that dripped drool and bared jagged teeth. Their growls were deep and rumbling; they resonated through the air and the very rock of the street.

The final stand. No one of the Order fired a shot or even said a word. As one they waited for the enemy to close the gap. Sirius drew his wand and held it before him, even as Remus came to stand beside him. At that moment, he no longer had any uncertainties. He felt empty and unfettered, like the clear autumn air. 

With a collective roar, the beasts charged. In a heartbeat they had bounded into the circle, in the next they had leaped into the hedged island. 

A huge stone fist burst from the ground, bashing the lead beast from below as it leaped over the boulders. With a strangled yelp it flew twenty feet into the air. Its companions leaped away, scattering to all sides of the island as their pack leader hit the pavement with a sickening crunch. The soil of the island roiled and swelled, and the Golems pushed themselves from out the ground.

Each of the three Golems stood ten feet tall, carved completely out of solid yellow rock. They were human-shaped, but their chests and arms were almost comically huge. Their domed heads had no necks, their faces featureless but for two slitted eyes. They held their outsized hammer-fists before them as they trudged forward in separate directions, scattering dirt and grass as they moved. 

Howling with rage, Voldemort's minions charged at them. At that same moment, Sirius raised his wand. 

"_Fire!_" 

The men of the Order flung curses at the attacking beasts. One went straight for them and was cut down beneath their barrage. There was a thunderous crash as the rest closed in with the Golems. Claws raked against stone skin and sightless eyes, heavy fists smashed against yielding flesh and bones. 

Sirius felt a thrill run through his body as the melee began. The plan had worked. Sure their strategy would succeed again, the Death Eaters allowed their creations to spearhead the battle. But they let them get too far ahead, leaving a gap in their ranks—a weakness the Order exploited.

At the opening of the keyhole, the doors on both sides of the street burst open. From the right, seven centaurs galloped out with their bows at the ready. From the left, eight wizards rushed forward and formed a battle line before their allies. Both groups awaited the coming of the Death Eaters.

Sirius turned his attention back to the fray. One of the Golems toppled over with a crash, its left arm shattering into a dozen pieces as it struck the cobblestones. Three of the beasts lost no time swarming over it, attempting to finish it off. The Golem did not give up. With its remaining arm it picked up one of the beasts and smashed it into ground.

"Remus," Sirius cried, "you take over here! Stun as many of those things as you can. I'm going to the firing line!"

Remus nodded and motioned to the rest. The battalion fanned out, staying just beyond the reach of the fight. Sirius avoided the clash altogether and made it to the centaur line. "Now, Magorian," he puffed as he came to stand beside the centaur, "now's the time to put your money where your mouth is."

The centaur nodded grimly. He raised his hand, and his troop drew and notched arrows. They were no ordinary missiles—the blunt tips were made of fine glass, and inside was a small amount of Pixie Dust. One whiff of it would instantly put any man to sleep.

From ahead of them came the sound of running feet, and two dozen Death Eaters came jogging round the bend. Some were laughing, thinking the tumult was as a massacre of their enemies. The mirth died when they saw the firing line, and they all skidded to a halt. Sirius saw the look of confusion in the leader's eyes and relished it.

"_Wandshields up!_" he cried.

The wizard line raised their wands. The tips glowed and spread outward, each forming a golden semi-corporeal shield a full meter in diameter. They would not be able to cast spells while the shields were active, but they did not need to. All they had to do was protect the centaurs. 

In a panic, the Death Eaters threw themselves towards whatever cover they could find—walls, lampposts, mailboxes, hedges. Magorian dropped his hand and shouted, "Fire!" 

Six bows twanged in unison as the centaurs let fly. Two arrows quickly found their mark and a pair of Death Eaters fell face down, asleep before they hit the ground. The rest crouched behind cover and pressed their hands to their noses in an attempt to keep out the dust. Some raised their wands and fired wildly. Most of the shots missed. Those that didn't were deflected by the Wandshields. In the blink of an eye, the centaurs had fired another volley. And another, and another. More Death Eaters dropped in silent stupor.

"Keep at it!" yelled Sirius through the exchange of fire. "Don't let any close in!"

He ducked a shot aimed for his head and returned it. Some of the enemy had cast their own Wandshields, while the rest fired from behind them. Windows shattered, holes were blown through walls, and the street took on a prismatic glow as curses were flung and deflected. 

After a few moments, the enemy captain started barking commands. The remaining twelve Death Eaters slowly huddled at the center of the street, forming two ranks. The lead rank maintained their Wandshields while the rest ducked behind them. 

"What is it?" asked Magorian. "What are they doing?"

"A phalanx maneuver, same as us," replied Sirius. "They'll try to close the gap to use Killing Curses."

True enough, the huddle began to inch towards them. The centaur captain clenched his teeth. "Let them come," he said, drawing his dagger. "We fight just as well up close."

'But not without casualties,' thought Sirius. Wandshields would break against the _Avada Kedavra_, and there was no room for their men to dodge within the narrow street. The enemy would close in, the second rank would fire in unison. Unless they pulled back now, their whole troop would go down. 

 Sirius turned around, surveying the melee behind them. As it turned out, their mission was halfway done. Six of Voldemort's minions lay either dead or Stunned on the street, while a Golem had the other two pinned down. Said Golem had lost both legs, but leaned its full weight on its arms to hold its struggling captives. One of its companions lay inactive not far away, head and both arms smashed to bits. The last Golem was the only one still intact, standing tall amidst the wreckage of the street.

He looked back ahead of him. The Death Eaters were closing in, slowly but surely. The centaur arrows were no longer effective—the enemy must have known some kind of countercharm. Within moments they would be within range for Avada. There were no real options left. He had to order a retreat.

Then an idea came to Sirius, an idea so reckless he thought he'd gone mad.

He turned to Magorian. "Pull your men back three steps, but keep firing!"

The centaur gave him a questioning look, but Sirius was already sprinting back to the interior of the circle. He ran behind the standing Golem, clambered up its back, and sat on its shoulders. He was vaguely aware of Remus calling out to him, but his heart was pounding too loudly in his ears to hear exactly what was said. 

Sirius struck the Golem's head with the butt of his wand. "_CHARGE!_"

The stone giant lumbered forward, reaching the entrance of the keyhole in five quick strides. The centaurs turned at the sound of its hulking steps, and their eyes widened at the sight of the juggernaut. 

"Out of the way!" bellowed Sirius. 

Neighing in surprise, they vaulted from formation. The wizards also dove out of the way. The narrow street lay open before him, as did the huddled group of Death Eaters. The enemy stared at the oncoming giant in wordless shock.

Almost as an afterthought, Sirius held out his wand and conjured up a Wandshield. The night wind whistled in his ears, blew through his hair. Harry's face floated to his mind once more, then Sirius let him go.

The Death Eaters brought up their wands and fired. Curses riddled the Golem's body in quick succession. Bits of blistering rock sprayed on Sirius's face and his vision dissolved in a wicked green light. He let out one last, defiant cry. 

The Golem smashed through the ranks like a child diving through a pile of leaves. Men and wands flew through the air. Sirius took a split-second to realize that he somehow survived the barrage, another to realize that the Golem he was riding no longer had any legs. It pitched forward and he sent flying through the air. He was suspended in space for an impossibly long moment, then the ground rushed up to meet him. He landed rolling. Pain exploded in his head in red lightning bolts, sky and street traded places many times before he finally lay still and his vision grayed out.

He came to as someone was roughly shaking him. "Wake up!" a familiar voice shouted. "Wake up! You can't die after making a speech like that! Wake up, damn you!"

Sirius opened his eyes. Everything was blurry and indistinct. Someone was hovering over him: a very angry Remus. 

"I'm alive?" wondered Sirius.

"Not for long!" Remus shook him even harder. "What the devil were you thinking?! Did Azkaban drive you out of your mind!? Do you want to get yourself killed _now_?!?"

Sirius looked around. He was lying spread-eagled on the pavement. All around him were smoldering pieces of the Golem he had ridden, and some feet away, the scattered forms of unconscious Death Eaters. Memories of his feat came back to him, and Sirius gave a low chuckle. 

"Oh no," he said. "I'm not going to die. I'm going to live forever."

Remus snorted and took his shoulders, pulling him to sitting position. Sirius choked back his laughter. "That hurts!"

"I'd expect it to, if I broke my left arm," retorted Remus. He slung Sirius right arm over his shoulders and hefted him to his feet. "I swear, if you die on me over the course of this war, I won't lift a finger to prove you were innocent. I'll scrawl CRIMINALLY INSANE on your headstone!"

"He he he …ow, ow, OW! Are you trying to kill me?!" Sirius clenched his teeth as a fresh round of pain broke out over his body; he felt he might fall apart if he laughed too hard. 

They limped towards the entrance of circular road. The place looked liked it had been pummeled by a hurricane—the roads were wrecked and most houses had more holes than windows. But their men paid it no heed—they were running back and forth, shouting jubilant cries and shaking each other's hands. 

Magorian and his centaurs were more sober, standing to the side and tending to their wounded. He looked up as Sirius approached. "So," he said, "you _did_ survive."

"Yep," croaked Sirius. "I guess I'm just too stubborn to die."

"Stubborn, among other things." The centaur inclined his head, as if debating something with himself. Finally he muttered, "You fight well. For a human."

Sirius blinked. He wasn't expecting _that_.

"We'll take care of our own here," Magorian went on in his usual peremptory tone. "Go tend to yours."

Sirius nodded, and he let Remus lead him onward. "How did we do?" he asked, gazing about at the aftermath.

"Five beasts were killed. We've got one intact and Stunned, two injured but will probably live. They should be enough for our research team. As for the Death Eaters, they have two casualties and the rest are unconscious. The captain's one of those who survived." 

Sirius grinned. "So. We won. And we're still alive."

Remus glared at him, but soon his frown also gave way to a relieved smile. "So we are. That's all I can really ask for."

They made their way to the beast they had Stunned. Three men were guarding it with their wands, but it lay still on its paws, completely helpless. 

"An amazing creature," breathed Remus. "Dreadful, but no less amazing." 

"Moony, look." Sirius pointed at its face, where twin rust-colored tracks traced down its cheeks. They were tearstains. Even as they watched, moisture leaked out of its half-open eyes and dripped onto the street.

"They're still human enough to cry?" marveled Sirius.

"Maybe," replied Remus, watching the twisted face with the human eyes. He said, "I think I have a name for them now. 'Weepers.' So we'll never forget what they once were, and may still be again."

Many miles north of Vespers, the meeting room of The Summit was alive with celebration.

"Victory!" cried Marius. He had thrown up his hands and was doing a wild little jig around the table. "VICTORY!"

"Marius, really!" admonished Arabella. But she, too, was flushed and grinning. It was, after all, their first successful battle, all the more glorious since it was won through a cunning and well-executed plan. 

Lyle was speaking to the Vision Lamp, getting a final report from Sirius. After a few moments, he turned off the Lamp and turned to them.

"A complete success," he said, smiling. "Sirius and Remus are now heading for Birmingham via Portkey. They're bringing with them three of these 'Weepers' and twenty-two captive Death Eaters. They're also bringing a casualty: Carrius Mulligan. Marius, please send word to Bernard at Birmingham. Tell him to get our Medi-Wizards ready, and make preparations to transport our prisoners of war. Arabella, please give Mundungus my regards. I'm sure he's eagerly awaiting news on how his Golems performed. Tell him they were a complete success, but will need redesigning. Also, please inform Dumbledore about our captive Death Eaters. He'll be expecting to hear some results."

He grinned. "We've struck a blow against the Dark Army, and it's not one they'll soon forget."

Arabella laughed and clapped her hands, while Marius was busy conjuring up a rain of confetti. Lyle, however, simply walked past them to the door.

"Lyle, where're you going?" Marius exclaimed. "We still have to celebrate!"

The Commander paused by the doorway. "Did either of you know Carrius Mulligan?"

Arabella and Marius both shook their heads. 

"Neither did I," murmured Lyle, "but I have to write his letter."

_To be continued_

_Chapter XII Release: Feb. 1_


	12. Out of the Shadows, Into the Night

**The Phoenix and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter XII: Out of the Shadows, Into the Night**

He was running through the gray coiling mist, amidst wind-blasted trees and moist, leaf-strewn grounds. His left hand curled around the Crystal Cage, clutched at it so tightly the edges bit into his skin. The doom of the Dark Lord. It was glowing again, shining beacon-bright through the cracks in his fist. He could hear his heart throbbing madly in his ears, or perhaps it was the Crystal, pulsing in his hand. It seemed to be urging him on. He could feel its power running down his arm, filling and exhilarating him. He had found its secret. And he was going to make the Dark Lord pay.

Something appeared in the mists ahead, an old, ramshackle mansion surrounded by a high brick wall and a rusty gate. The Riddle house—he had seen it before in a dream. The Dark Lord was hiding there somewhere, cowering like a wounded fox, waiting for his end.

The gate shrieked in protest as Harry shoved it aside and rushed down the footpath towards the house. The entrance stood open, its double doors hanging off its hinges; Harry hurtled past them and up the stairs. He strode down a dimly-lit hall, turned left, and there at the far end, a door of bolted ironwood. He ran towards it with his wand drawn—"_Alohomora_!"—it opened with a shuddering groan.

The shadows swallowed him as he entered. Harry waited for his eyes to adjust. Voldemort was here—he knew it, he could sense it. He was not going to get away, oh no. Harry was going to make him answer for the countless lives he had ruined. He was finally going to avenge his parents, Cedric and himself.

A chittering sound at his feet. Harry looked down and saw tiny lights, little blue and green stars forming odd constellations on the floor. No, not stars. Scores of glowing insects were scattered there. His eyes adjusted a bit, and he realized that beneath them was an enormous map of Britain.

As he tried to comprehend all this, someone spoke in the gloom. Harry's eyes snapped up as a candelabra flared green flame in shadows ahead, a light that illumed the hateful face of the Dark Lord. But his eyes did not stray to Harry. Voldemort was speaking into the candle flame. Harry could not make out much of what he was saying, but one word rang out clearly. It filled him with a deadly fear, so potent that his wrath died like a spark in a sudden gust. And as his courage failed, so did the light of the Crystal.

Voldemort blew out the flame, and Harry was plunged in darkness. It became harder to breathe; the heavy air felt cold and oppressive, as if the room were suddenly filled with ghosts. Panic gripped Harry's mind, ran down his spine to the tips of his hands and toes. His eyes fell on the pinpricks of light on the map. One of them shone brighter than the others, a pulsing violet glare that cut into his brain. The insects buzzed louder, reaching crescendo. His scar began searing into his flesh. Harry clutched at his head and fell to his knees. He wanted to retch. He wanted to scream.

Then someone spoke again. This time not the high, cold voice he hated, but someone gruff and familiar.

_"Wake up."_

"What?" said Harry. His head throbbed, wanting to split open. He shook it hard. Vertigo pushed him onto his back.

_"Wake up." _Someone wiped a cold wet rag on his face._ "You're still dreaming. C'mon now, wake up!"_

_"Can he even hear you?"_ said another familiar voice.

_"Have to try sometime. Better than sitting around with our hands on our laps."_

Another voice, this one a stranger's, said, _"There're still some toxins left in his system. His body needs to rest to fight the last of it off."_

_"How do you supposed he can do that if he hasn't eaten or drunk anything in two days?"_

Harry realized the darkness before him was shifting, turning into a murky gray haze. He realized he was lying down on something soft. I _am_ dreaming, he thought, and struggled to open his eyes.

The pain and the buzzing noise began to subside. Light bled into his vision, blurred colors appearing through the mist. He gazed up at three faces hovering above him.

Mad-Eye Moody, an eye-patch covering his magical eye, stared down at him from the right side of the bed. Beside the old man, a blonde stranger in purple robes was training what looked like a magnifying glass attached to his wand at Harry's bandaged left arm. At the foot of the bed stood Daniel Oaks, arms crossed and a look of relief on his lean face.

"Well," said Danny, grinning broadly, "welcome back to the land of the living, Robbie."

"Steady there, lad," said Moody. He reached out a hand and touched Harry's forehead. "How're you feeling?"

Harry tried to speak but his tongue refused to work properly. He swallowed, relaxed his jaws, and tried again.

"I'm alright."

"He's still partially paralyzed," observed the stranger, tucking away his magnifying glass.

_Paralyzed? _Harry tried to sit up, but it felt as if invisible chains were holding him to the bed. "What's wrong with me?" he asked.

"You've got nothing to worry about." The stranger gave him a reassuring smile. He looked quite young, and had the expression of a child who had just solved a challenging puzzle. "It's just the after-effects of Corsulus, keeping you from having full control of you muscles."

Moody said, "By the way, Robert, this is Covenant Bishop…"

"Uh, just Coven, please," said the young man, wincing. "Pleased to meet you, Robert." Harry realized that the Polymien Pill was still active, so Coven did not know who he really was.

"He's a Medi-Wizard sent by the Order," Moody went on. "Flew in last night from Birmingham."

"And luckily I got here in time." Coven bent closer to examine Harry's bandaged arm. "Another hour and the paralysis might've spread through your body and frozen your heart. _Lumos._" His wand suddenly lit up. "Could you keep your eyes wide open please?"

Harry did. Coven briefly shone his wandlight into his eyes, then shut it off. "Good. Can I ask you to please wiggle your fingers, if you can?"

Harry looked at his right hand. He managed to wiggle the fingers of his right hand, but his left arm stung when he tried to move it.

"It hurts?" asked Coven.

"Yes, a little bit."

"Try your toes."

Harry tried it. It was harder this time, as his legs felt like plywood. He could _feel_ his toes move, at least. Moody's nod confirmed it for him.

"Well," said Coven, "it looks like your left arm's the only problem."

"Would some conventional cures help?" asked Moody. "Probably some chocolate around here somewhere…"

"Chocolate only works for psychosomatic symptoms, such as a Dementor's negative energies. Corsulus is completely physical, which is why we should rely on the poultice. Applied regularly, it shouldmake the paralysis go away."

"What, no guarantees?" pressed Danny.

"No, there aren't. But seeing that his pupils dilate, there's no discoloration of the skin around the wound, and no speech or hearing problems, I'm willing to put good money on a full recovery." He looked at Harry again. "One more thing—do you feel hungry?"

Harry blinked. "Well, I…now that you mention it..."

"That wasn't a test, actually. But since you haven't eaten in a while, I think you'll do with some soup and plenty of water."

Moody turned and looked expectantly at Danny. "Well?"

"Wha—me?"

"Yes, you. Get about it!"

Danny's lower lip stiffened, but he turned and went out the room without another word.

"Excuse me," said Harry. "What is it I've got again?"

"Corsulus, otherwise known as Wight Blight," replied Coven. "It's a disease found on the extremities of some undead creatures. Deadly, but fortunately not incurable if treated early."

"…And you're really a Medi-Wizard?"

Coven laughed, rubbing the back of his head. "I get that a lot. To be honest, I just graduated. License is due next month. I don't look it, but I'm actually twenty-five years old." He leaned forward eagerly. "My turn. Did you really take on a thousand-year old vampire?"

The image of Wagnard's death throes crashed into Harry's mind. He blanched and shook his head. Coven took the hint.

"Sorry," he said, "my brother always said I was way too nosy. In any case, you're really lucky to be alive."

"Don't we know it," grumbled Moody, unhooking the flask from his belt. "I even miss standing guard at Headquarters." He paused before taking a swig. "Actually, that's not true. I don't miss standing guard at all."

Coven chuckled, then said, "Listen, I'd love to stay and keep an eye on you, but they need me back at Birmingham. I've still got a lot of jinx patients to attend to."

"How are things going for the Order?" Moody asked him.

Coven shook his head as he put his instruments in his knapsack. "More injured come in everyday. We Medi-Wizards do what we can, but we lack resources and manpower. I say the sooner the Ministry sides with us, the better."

He finished packing and retrieved his broom from the corner.

"Still haven't gotten the hang of Apparating, eh?" Moody said, smirking.

"Don't start. I'll be taking a third exam next week. Maybe then I'll be able to Disapparate without leaving a body part behind." He looked at Harry and said, "I've given Mr. Moody some Agrias's Balm, which I've applied on your wound. All you'll need to do is keep applying it once a day. Got it?"

Harry nodded, and the Medi-Wizard got on his broom and waved his wand at the window. The wooden pane stretched open to accommodate him.

"H-hey, wait" said Harry, and Coven paused. "Thanks a lot. I guess I owe you my life."

Coven laughed and rubbed his head again. "Don't be so dramatic—it's my job. Besides, if Mr. Moody here hadn't used any first aid, then there wouldn't have been much left for me to work with. He and Daniel hadn't slept a wink since you were attacked."

Harry turned to look at Moody, who seemed a bit uncomfortable. "Eh, get going," he said, waving Coven off. "I'll let your brother know how much of a help you've been once we get back."

Coven nodded, then tapped his wand on his forehead. It seemed to Harry as if invisible paint was being poured on him and his broom. "I'll be seeing you soon!" said Coven's disembodied voice. "Good luck!"

There was a sudden rushing noise, then the window returned to its original size.

"So," said Moody, sitting down on the chair beside the bed.

"So," said Harry, his gaze studiously avoiding Moody. "Did you, uh, fix the window?"

"What?"

"The window's not smashed. Did you fix it?"

"No. We moved to another room, is all. I made sure Mr. Morrow won't remember a thing of it."

"Oh, I see."

They were quiet for a minute. Then the door suddenly opened and Danny came in, bearing a tray with steaming bowl of soup and tall glass of water. "Here's breakfast," he said, "Anything else you want me to get? Truffles? Silk pajamas? Some fine sherry wine?"

"How 'bout some peace and quiet to start with?" retorted Moody, "Get yourself downstairs and stand guard!"

"Whatever you say," said Danny, doing an about-face.

"Leave the tray!"

"Right." Danny set it on the table and marched out the door, closing it not too softly.

"Chinless twit, always clowning around," muttered Moody as he got up from the chair and lurched towards the table. "Well, at least you've mostly recovered," he said to Harry. "The sooner we can get you to Hogwarts, the better."

"Mr. Moody?"

The old man stopped and gave him a sidelong glance.

Harry hesitated, then said, "I just want to say…thanks. For looking out for me."

Moody inclined his head, and Harry realized his look was one of respect. "My job. But just so you know, you do a good job of looking out for yourself. Moreover, you got what we came for."

Harry's eyes widened. "The Crystal Cage—"

"Its right where you left it," Moody replied, pointing. "In your hand."

Harry blinked, then reached his right hand beneath his left. The Crystal was there, its cool flesh nestled in his numb fingers. He picked it up to look at it.

"We didn't want to touch it," Moody began, but didn't finish his sentence.

Harry examined the crimson gem in its metal twine. The snapped chain hung loosely against his hand; it had been broken during the struggle in the churchyard.

"Did you find out anything about it?" asked Moody.

Harry nodded. "The vampire…Wagnard…he said he'd been searching for it for hundreds of years. He wanted to free the Cimmerian Sorceress. But when he finally found the Crystal, it wouldn't let him leave this place." He turned his eyes up to Moody . "What if…what if it has a mind of its own?"

The old Auror wrinkled his forehead. "There's an unsettling thought. Though if it can, it doesn't seem to mind having you for its owner."

Harry gazed deeply into the Crystal, as if he could divine its secrets if he looked carefully enough. The gem's opaque facets reflected his distorted image. He saw no spark, no sign at all that it possessed any kind of magic.

"So much," he whispered, "for something so small."

"Yeah," replied Moody. He turned and reached for the tray. "It isn't over yet," he added. "You still have to figure out how the damn thing works, then use it against the Dark Lord."

Harry suddenly tore his eyes from the Crystal. Moody's words brought something back to mind. "Mr. Moody, I…I had a dream just now! About Voldemort!"

Moody's hand froze just as it touched the tray. He did not turn around, but Harry felt his magical eye on him. "What did you see?"

Harry frowned, struggling to recall his vision. "He was holding a candelabra with green flames, and he was talking to it."

This time Moody did turn around, his gnarled face oddly expressionless.

"And?"

"I only understood one thing he said…" Harry blinked, then looked up to meet Moody's gaze in fearful epiphany.

"He said…._Hillsdale_."

A deep silence rang between the two of them, but it did not last for long. A humming sound, like that of high-tension wire, suddenly cut through the air.

At the corner of the room, Moody's Dark Detector was spinning furiously on its axis.

* * *

In the common room, Danny eased back on his chair and propped his feet on the table. At the moment, he was doing what he was told to do, which was to guard the place. He was also imagining what it would be like to have his hands around Mad-Eye Moody's neck. 

The old badger was obviously still peeved at him over that vampire debacle, and was deliberately keeping him away from their charge. Yes, it was wrong to leave Robert unguarded, and yes, it had been a bad idea to go drinking on the job, but it wasn't as if they were expecting anything like _that!_ An ancient vampire! Unbelievable!

Now Moody had reduced his role to that of a courier and gofer. He hated that most about his godfather, the way he always thought of his godson as some cheap amateur. As if he hadn't done quite well for himself over the years. Never mind that he had helped kill that monster. Never mind that his quick reflexes had actually saved Robert's life.

Some small part of him whispered that he probably wouldn't have had to do any of that if he'd been a little more cautious in the first place, but he suppressed that voice. It sounded a lot like Moody's.

"'Now you can _try_ to justify your fee,'" said Danny, mimicking Moody's jibe. "Ah, put a sock in it, Cue-Ball."

At the very least, they could go any time now that Robert's awake. They'd take the Portkey back to Evensdale, then he'd collect his fee from Dumbledore, go back to his shack in the woods and forget about the whole bloody thing.

From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a shadow flit across a window.

Danny sat straight up, frowning. Probably just a pedestrian, or a cop walking his beat. But the memory of his previous failure came back to him, and Danny gritted his teeth and got up from the chair. He approached the window and peered out. The sidewalk was empty in both directions, save for dried leaves pushed about by little eddies of air. The midday sky was an overcast gray, threatening rain. Across the street, the faces of abandoned buildings glared at him with empty sockets. He made a show of shrugging and walked back to his chair, then doubled back to the front door and listened. Not a sound from the outside. No rustle of cloth, no tread of feet. It did not relieve his suspicion.

Hand on his wand, he slowly eased the door open. He stepped outside and looked about. The streets were empty, and oddly quiet.

Danny heard a sudden _pop! _from behind him. Even as he pulled out his wand he felt the blunt tip of another against the nape of his neck.

"Put your hands up, slowly," someone ordered.

Danny hesitated, then did as he was told. Two more strangers Apparated at his sides, one of which relieved him of his wand.

"Good morning," dead-panned Danny. "Nice to see a fellow tourist around here."

"Search him," said the man behind him. The one on his left began frisking him.

"Ah, whoa," said Danny, "look, I've got a knife in my left pocket and some matches in my right. Look anywhere else and I'll get ticklish."

He was relieved of these items, then the man behind him pulled him about by the shoulder. Danny's eyes widened in shock when he saw the dark robes and the black masks. "_What the hell?"_

Three wands were now pressed against his throat. "How many people are in there?" demanded the Death Eater on his right, gesturing at the inn.

"I've got two dozen of my friends up there waiting for me," Danny replied. "Want me to call them?"

Answering scowls came from his three assailants, but a fourth voice from somewhere behind him said, "Never mind. There are at most three other people in there according to the intelligence report. Let him lead us upstairs."

They shoved Danny towards the entrance. "Ah, you don't want to be staying too long around here," said Danny, opening the door. "It's not a very good vacation spot. Everyone's tight-lipped, the accommodations are uninspiring, and we've had recent problems with rodents of unusual size…"

"Very smart mouth you got, runt." One of them jabbed a wand at his back, forcing him into the common room. "I'm inclined to know how smart you can get when I blow another mouth through the back of your head. Just try and give me a reason to do it."

"Okay, okay, let's not be hasty." There was little chance he could take these jokers by surprise. Danny could only hope that Moody happened to be looking down right now.

All heads turned as the kitchen door suddenly swung open. "Would you like some oranges, Mr. Oaks?" asked Mr. Morrow as he came in, a bowl of fruit in his hand. "I just got some from—hoh, what's going on?" He stared bemusedly at the group of robed men.

One of the Death Eater aimed his wand at the innkeeper. "LEAVE HIM ALONE!" Danny shouted, "HE'S NOT—!"

A crimson blaze ripped through the air, and the old man went flying. The bowl in his hands exploded, scattering bits of fruit and ceramic. Mr. Morrow vanished back into the kitchen, the door swinging wildly in his wake.

All rational thought dissolved from Danny's mind in a red haze. He grabbed the Death Eater's arm and with a twist sent him hurtling towards the wall. He turned about, fist balled, to punch his nearest enemy.

_"Imperio!"_

A sudden burst of magic caught him full in the face. At first, everything looked so white, he thought he'd stepped into a cloud. And when it lifted, Danny found that there wasn't a trace of anger in his mind. Why should he be angry? He was among friends! The three men standing in front of him (and the one on his back over there) were the most trusted companions anyone could ask for! In fact, they were the only things that seemed real—everything else looked blurred and colorless. He gazed happily at the men, waiting for them to speak.

"That pasty-faced bastard," the man on the floor roared as he got up, making Danny wonder why he was so mad. "I'm going to blow his hands off and—"

"You'll do nothing of the sort," said the man before him. "We've wasted enough time already. _Take us upstairs_."

Danny felt like he was in a deep well, and someone was talking down to him. Only too glad to comply, he turned and walked towards the staircase. It seemed so right to do what he was told. He felt very light and giddy. Together they climbed to the second floor.

"_Take us to the room where your friends are,"_ whispered the man behind him. Danny nodded, smiling. Sure, why not? The more the merrier. He turned right and ambled down the narrow hall, counting the doors as he went. One sorrow, two for joy, three for a girl, four for a boy. Here it is, right-ho! Danny stopped and faced the room, like a hound pointing with its nose.

His friends stealthily followed him. Two of them flattened themselves on either side of the door while the other two took up places behind him. Danny wondered why they were acting so funny.

_"Let them know you're here. Tell them you just dropped something. Tell them you need a little help."_

"Hey Moody, Robbie!" shouted Danny. "That was me—just dropped some stuff downstairs! Hey, could you lend me a hand?"

_"Very good. You did very well." _The compliment was the sweetest sound he'd heard. Danny felt like smiling for days. It felt so good to take orders. Not thinking was the greatest freedom he had ever had in his life.

_"Now, let them know you're coming in and open the door."_

"I'm coming in, all right?" Daniel put his hand on the doorknob, then stopped. Something about this felt, well, _wrong_. He wasn't supposed to open the door for some reason. He stood still, suddenly unsure.

_"Open the door." _

'Hang on, I'm working on it,' mouthed Danny. He turned the knob, but stopped halfway. He felt oddly guilty, like he was betraying someone. Someone he was supposed to protect. No, that can't be…can it? He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Three for a girl, four for—a boy?

_ "Open the door, now!"_

A universe of pain blossomed in Daniel's head. He could not resist. With a groan, he twisted the knob.

* * *

Harry gulped as the door slid open. He lay perfectly still on the bed, watching as Daniel walked into the room. One look at the tall boy's face told him the whole story—there was no spark of personality in Danny's eyes, just a vacant expression and a haphazard smile. Harry remembered when Barty Crouch had put him under the Imperius Curse, and felt a twinge of sympathy.

Danny was shoved forward as one of the Death Eaters burst in, training his wand all around the room. His eyes roamed over the shelves, to the table and the untouched tray of food, and finally fell onto the bed. Harry held his breath.

"There's no one in here!" said the intruder angrily. Immediately, two more Death Eaters pushed into the room and looked about. Harry could see the fourth one peering in from his place beside the door.

As they looked about dumbfounded, Harry's eyes inched up to the top of the doorframe. Suspended by magic, Moody's trunk was hanging in mid-air over the entrance. In fact, right over the head of one of the intruders.

Without warning, the trunk crashed onto the Death Eater and both hit the ground. His two companions whirled about, just as the door across the hall burst open.

_"STUPEFY!"_ bellowed Mad-Eye Moody.

The Death Eater outside the door had no time to react—he was blown against the wall and knocked out cold. The remaining intruders raised their wands in alarm, but Harry reacted faster. Throwing off his Invisibility Cloak, he pointed his own wand and shouted, _"Expelliarmus!"_

The nearest Death Eater cried out as the wand leaped out of his hand, but was cut off as Moody Stupefied him. Grinning savagely, Moody leaped over his trunk in the doorway to finish off the remaining Death Eater. But the last one whirled about, and Harry found himself looking at the glowing end of his wand. He knew it was coming, the Killing Curse. Harry raised his wand automatically, but his mind went blank before the deadly light in the hooded man's eyes.

Lanky arms shot out from behind the Death Eater. His cry of surprise was cut off as one hand locked around his jaw, and another wrapped around his wrist. His wand tilted upwards and discharged harmlessly at the ceiling.

The Death Eater's eyes rolled towards his attacker, and a look of fear appeared in them. Danny's face was twisted in ungodly rage.

"_Order _me_ around, will you_?"

Grabbing the man's wand arm in both hands, Danny twisted his wrist till the wand dropped to the ground. He then took his enemy by the back of the neck and he hurled him against the wall. The Death Eater struck it face-first, bounced off and fell spread-eagled onto his back, out cold.

Harry looked about their ruined quarters, and felt a grim satisfaction. All around were the defeated forms of Voldemort's servants, and Moody was laying them up with Full-Body Bind spells. They had won again.

But _why_ were they here?

His head snapped up as Moody trudged over to him. "You all right, boy?" he growled.

"I am," said Harry. "Hey…Danny?"

The young man was swaying on his feet, apparently still recovering from the effects of the Imperius spell. Moody grabbed his godson's shoulder to steady him.

"They…they got him!" croaked Danny.

Moody's brows furrowed. "What?"

"They got Mr. Morrow! He's hurt! Downstairs—"

He didn't have to say anymore. Moody immediately rushed out the door and lurched down the hall to the stairs. Harry suddenly felt sick. So _that_ was the crashing noise downstairs. He hoped the old innkeeper was still alive.

He tried to push himself up. "Danny, what happened downstairs? What did they do to—"

He froze as a wand was thrust against his forehead. He looked up, met Danny's hard, gray eyes.

"Danny, what—?"

"Don't move," he warned, his voice low and dangerous. "You're not going anywhere. Not until you tell me who the hell you really are."

_To be continued_

_Next …_

_"For the Aurors, the name Gallowbraid was an in-joke—it meant a non-existent person, a red herring. The phrase 'to chase a gallowbraid' meant to pursue a figment of one's imagination. This phrase came from Alastor Moody's allegations that a Dark Wizard called 'Andros Gallowbraid' was the perpetrator of certain crimes during and after the first reign of the Dark Lord. Having no records of such a man or any proof of his existence, however, it was widely believed that the aging Auror was steadily going senile, that Gallowbraid was simply a concoction of some of the worst Dark Wizards he had sent to Azkaban, and a convenient villain to could blame for the cases he could not solve._

_Now, of course, we know better. Sadly, that knowledge came after the damage had been done."_

_— Lionel W. Bishop, War Journals_

_Chapter XIII: Black Barrier, out on March 5_


	13. Black Barrier

**The Phoenix****and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

"_For the Aurors, the name Gallowbraid was an in-joke—it meant a non-existent person, a red herring. The phrase 'to chase a gallowbraid' meant to pursue a figment of one's imagination. This phrase originated from Alastor Moody's allegations that a Dark Wizard called 'Andros Gallowbraid' was the perpetrator of certain crimes during and after the first reign of the Dark Lord. Having no records of such a man or any proof of his existence, however, it was widely believed that the aging Auror was steadily going senile, that Gallowbraid was simply a concoction of some of the worst Dark Wizards he had sent to Azkaban, and a convenient villain to blame for the cases he could not solve._

_Now, of course, we know better. Sadly, that knowledge came after the damage had been done."_

— _Lionel W. Bishop, War Journals_

**Chapter XIII: Black Barrier**

Harry stayed propped on his elbows on the bed, shifting his eyes from the wand pointed at him to the young man who held it. Daniel's voice was calm, but his cold stare spoke otherwise. Perhaps it was the look he used on those uncooperative wizards he had to interrogate. Perhaps even the last warning before he let his wand do the talking.

"I was planning on asking you why there happened to be a vampire guarding your family heirloom," Danny began, "but I thought, hey, give the poor bloke a break, he nearly died out there. Maybe I'd ask you later.

"But Death Eaters—they're bad juju. Worst collection of bastards I've ever tangled with. I know one thing about them, though: they don't show up without a good reason. So you better start talking, Robert, because for some reason a lot of people want you dead."

Harry's mind raced for an explanation. As he kept silent, Danny went on, "A friend of mine's downstairs right now lying on the kitchen floor. I don't know whether he's alive or dead. All I know is that happened to him because he didn't know what he'd gotten himself into."

Cedric's deathly pale face appeared in Harry's mind, and cold guilt stabbed at his gut.

"All right," replied Harry. "I'm sorry about this. I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt."

"Noble sentiments don't save lives, kid. So, first off…" He prodded Harry's forehead with his wand. "Is your name really Robert Jerome Smith?"

"No."

"Bloody thought not. No self-respecting wizard would have name like that."

"There's a reason why I have to hide who I am. Actually, who I am's the reason."

"And you are?"

Harry looked him straight in the eye. "Harry James Potter."

Again came that crawling sensation, like an icy gust fanning out over his skin. Danny's wand dropped to the floor. As did his jaw.

"Look," Harry began, "I'm sorry I had to keep this a secret, but Dumbledore—_hey_!"

Danny yanked Harry off the bed by the collar and grabbed him by the head. He traced the lightning bold scar with a thumb, ensuring it was real, then let him drop. Harry's legs gave way and he flopped back down on the bed.

"This has to be some kind of trick!" cried Danny. "It can't be—you _can't_ be Harry Potter!"

"Well, I am!" Harry shouted back. "What difference does it make?"

"What's going on here!" Moody burst into the room, wand pointing this way and that. Mr. Morrow, disheveled but very much alive, was clinging onto his shoulder.

"He's Harry Potter!" yelled Danny, jabbing a finger at Harry.

Moody gave Harry a hard stare. Harry just shrugged. "He made me tell him."

Danny stalked towards Moody. "I was guarding _Harry Potter_!"

"So what if he's Harry Potter?" came Moody's reply.

"Pardon me," said Mr. Morrow, looking dazedly about. "Who's Harry Potter?" But everyone ignored him.

"Look," Harry said to Danny, "I know I put you in danger! I'm sorry already!"

"Never mind about putting _me_ in danger!" Danny fumed, still eyeing Moody. "I'm protecting the bloody Boy-Who-Lived for what? Peanuts! I could've easily charged Dumbledore a thousand Galleons for this job! Why didn't you tell me he was really Harry Potter?"

"You just answered your own question, pup," Moody replied. "Once you're done screaming like a girl in a Weird Sisters concert, we can get moving. Harry, you'd better put your disguise back on. We're not out of danger yet." Harry did as he was asked, muttering his alias under his breath. Moody left Danny to splutter awhile and got Mr. Morrow to sit down on the bed.

"Excuse me," protested Mr. Morrow, "will somebody just tell me what's happening? Are you people really from the government? Are you talking in some kind of secret code? And why are there hooded men lying on the floor? What in the world's going on?"

"What's going on," said Moody, "is you're about to go to sleep."

"I am?"

"Yes." Moody pointed his wand at him. "_Hypnos_."

Mr. Morrow jerked once, as if bitten by a snake, then he fell back onto the bed in a dead faint.

"All right, can we _stop_ with the spells already?" seethed Danny. "The poor guy's survived enough jinxes to merit a Medal of Honor!"

Moody jerked his head to the unconscious Death Eaters. "You'd rather we explain this to him, then?"

"I just want to know why we got attacked in the first place," said Harry. "No one else's supposed to know where we are! How did Voldemort know to send Death Eaters here?"

"Good question!" cried Danny. "And while we're asking, WHAT THE HELL DOES THE DARK LORD HAVE TO DO WITH ALL THIS?"

"Shut up!" bellowed Moody. "We can't answer any of that now! Come on! We're getting out of—"

He was cut off by a sudden tapping sound from the window. In a heartbeat, Moody had his wand trained at it, even as Danny dived for his own. Harry looked, and was surprised to find Coven there, floating in the air with his broom.

"Looks like they got to you already," the Medi-Wizard said through the glass, eyeing the unconscious Death Eaters.

"Stay right where you are!" snarled Moody. "No sudden movements!"

"It's really me, Mr. Moody! I had to come back—it's an emergency!"

Moody edged forward, still threatening him with his wand. "And how do I know you hadn't been captured and put under the Imperius Curse?"

Coven rubbed his head. "Well, there's a poser. What does your Foe Glass say?"

Moody reached into his pocket and checked his device. He nodded to Danny and Harry. "All right, come on in."

Coven slid the window open and clambered inside. "Sorry to startle you like this, but I just had to warn you."

"Warn us?" asked Harry, struggling to sit up. "Warn us about what?"

"I was headed west towards to a safe route back to Birmingham. I was nearly outside of Hillsdale when I chanced to look down…and I saw some men, hiding in a copse of trees near the border. They were dressed just like these guys." He gestured at the Death Eaters.

Moody cursed under his breath. "How many?"

"I saw six. There may be more of them, though. I can't be sure."

"Great, just what we need," muttered Danny, "barbarians at the gate."

"Right." Moody looked about, catching everyone's eye. "We took out their entire advanced scout. If these fools don't report back soon, the rest of the troupe will be storming in here before you know it. Time to clear out. Danny, help our boy up. We're making a dash for our Portkey."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Danny retorted. He pointed at the unconscious innkeeper. "We owe this Muggle for helping us out, remember? We can't just leave him here!"

"Oh, all right," Moody said, grimacing. "Coven, do me a favor."

The young Medi-Wizard's face shone with excitement. "Ready for anything, sir!"

"I need you to take this Muggle to headquarters. Lyle will know what to do with him. You'll need to Disillusion yourselves, and you have to keep him knocked out the whole way there or there'll be—"

"Hell to pay—understood!" Coven fairly swooped down on the unconscious innkeeper. "Don't worry. Once I've gotten my Chameleon spells up, I'd be able to fly right up to the Death Eaters and thumb my nose at them."

"Don't act so cheerful, damn it! We're in terrible business here! Our lives are at stake!"

"Don't I know it," Coven replied, eyes gleaming. He dragged Mr. Morrow to his broom and started strapping him into the harness beneath it.

Meanwhile, Danny had slung Harry's arm across his shoulders and was hauling the younger boy to his feet. Harry noticed that he was avoiding looking him in the eye.

"Hey, take care of yourself, Robert," Coven called to Harry. "I sure wish I could go with you guys. Whatever it is you're up to, I bet it's something terribly exciting!"

"Don't I know it," groused Danny.

* * *

After Coven had gone, Harry and his two companions left the inn and hurried through the deserted streets of Hillsdale. Against Harry's protests, Danny slung him over the shoulder and carried him for most the way. They would often duck into alleys while Moody checked his Dark Detectors for a possible ambush. Thankfully, the way had been free of any nasty surprises. Half an hour later, Harry found himself in the outskirts of town, in the very meadow where they first arrived. 

Harry felt his heartbeat quicken as Danny clambered up the tree where he had hidden his hatchet. _Now, now_ _I'm going home_.

He shut his eyes, could almost see the spires of Hogwarts glimmering in the sunset. He could almost see the look of relief on the faces of Ron and Hermione, almost hear Dumbledore congratulating him for a job well done. He imagined Ginny's face, her brown eyes warm and welcoming, and his heart hurt with anticipation. Imperceptibly his hand reached into his pocket and curled around the Crystal Cage that he'd fought so hard to attain. To go home at the end of it all was enough to make it worthwhile.

"Look out below!" shouted Danny, and the hatchet dropped onto the ground, blade-in-soil. Danny leaped down after it.

"It's touch-triggered now?" asked Moody, hobbling forward.

"Sure is," Danny said. "Takes three people to activate the exit method. Just grab on and we're out of here."

Moody grunted and crouched down to reach for the grip. Danny put his fingers on the axe head, then looked at Harry. "Want to do the honors, 'Robbie?'"

Harry barely noticed the sardonic tone Danny's voice. He reached for the end of the axe's handle, waiting for the sudden disorienting yank of magical force around his navel. He would welcome it this time. He would relish it.

His fingers curled around the handle's end.

A second passed.

Five seconds.

Nothing happened.

Harry blinked, looked up at Danny. The elder boy was frowning down at the Portkey. "Er…can we try it again?" he said. "Just let go then hold it again."

They did. This was followed by third try, a fourth. Worry grew in Harry's heart, pounded loudly against his ribcage. "What's going on? Why isn't it working?" he asked, trying to keep his face straight as he looked from one man to another.

Moody's face was slowly darkening as he stared Danny down. "Well?"

Danny's face only registered complete surprise. "I…I don't understand," he muttered, rapping the axehead. "It should work. It has to work."

He drew out his wand and tapped the axe twice. It emitted a blue glow, registering magic, but it still would not activate. His face burned a mortified red. "I don't understand…"

"What's to understand?" growled Moody. "Your Portkey's defective!"

Danny's face turned even redder. "I know how to set up a Portkey, Moody! This was working fine before we left. I tested it! I'm damned sure of it!"

"The results aren't very encouraging, are they?"

Harry tried to fight down his panic. "Can you fix it, Danny?"

"What do you think I'm doing?" he snapped. He waved his wand again. The blue glow of the axe flared once, then died.

Moody uttered something so foul that Danny leaped to his feet. "This isn't my fault!" he shouted.

"This was your responsibility!" Moody got up as well, his eyes bulging at the sockets. "You were supposed to ensure safe passage in and out of Hillsdale! That's what you were contracted to do!"

"I KNOW that! I was READY to do that!"

"All YOU were ready for was to slack around and get drunk, you sot! I should've expected something like this! Now we're stranded here, because of you!"

Danny's hands balled into fists. "Why you stuck-up, moldering old mountain goat! I'm not going to take that from you! I did as I was told! It's you and Dumbledore who didn't play fair by not telling me who the hell I was really guarding!"

"It's called PROTECTIVE SECRECY! Try to comprehend the concept, even if you can't spell the words, bourbon-brain!"

"It's called CHEATING, you pus-eating, senile baboon! I knew you've stooped to a lot of lows just to lick Dumbledore's boots, but this has gone too far!"

Harry stared at the malfunctioning Portkey, hardly believing this was happening. It had only begun to sink in: they were stranded. Here, hunted by an unknown number of Death Eaters who for some reason knew where to find them. Part of him was angry—rightfully so. Another part of him just wanted to block out the rest of the world, starting with the two men in front of him, shouting at the top of their lungs.

"Don't you ever say that to me, you miserable pile of cow dung!" Moody was bellowing. "You've caused nothing but trouble from the beginning of this whole mission! If I had gotten someone more competent I wouldn't be in this mess!"

Danny's face was contorted in rage, but abruptly calmed at those last words. "You know what?" he said, "That's a great idea. You go ahead and get Dumbledore to send you the people you need. I'm sure THAT would satisfy you." He turned and started walking away.

Moody gaped at him. "What the—what are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" Danny called from over his shoulder. "I'm walking home."

Moody remained wordless for all of five seconds before shouting, "_You can't do that! You've got a job to do! You have to—_"

"I don't _have_ to do anything. I agreed to help out Dumbledore for a certain sum he'd agreed to pay. Unfortunately, three hundred Galleons isn't worth risking my life over. Even a doddering old git like you can comprehend that. Get some other lackey to kick around. I'm gone."

"Get back here, you idiot! You can't just walk out like this!"

"Watch me." Danny had reached the edge of the meadow.

Moody's snarled at his back. "Your father would never leave a task unfinished! I swear, if Julian ever found out his son turned out to be a—"

Moody froze, as if he realized he'd gone too far. Danny spun around, wand suddenly in hand and pointing straight at his godfather.

"DON'T YOU EVER MENTION THAT BASTARD'S NAME TO ME!" screamed Danny. "DON'T YOU EVER TALK ABOUT HIM! YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT WHAT KIND OF MAN HE WAS! NOTHING!"

Two men stared each other down, desperate situation already forgotten. Watching them, Harry suddenly realized he'd ceased to breathe the moment Danny drew his wand.

After what seemed an eternity, Danny put his dawn down, turned, and stalked off.

Moody's chest still was heaving, but he tried to bring himself under control. "Fine then," he said, turning to Harry. "We can go on without him."

Harry did not look at him. He watched Danny's back receding into the shadows of the trees. "Will he be all right?"

Moody did not answer.

"So, what do we do now?" Harry asked. "We can't just walk to Hogwarts."

Moody sighed and sat down. He opened his chest and retrieved his magic gas lamp. "Dumbledore'll figure it out, lad. Just leave it to him. We've been in worse scrapes than this, and he's always…"

There was a pregnant pause, then the lamp fell from Moody's hand and tumbled onto the grass. "No, it can't be..."

Harry turned at the odd tone of his voice. "What? What can't be?"

When Moody didn't answer, Harry followed the old man's gaze up to the sky. He noticed nothing out of the ordinary at first, until he shaded his eyes against the sun's glare.

Something was wrong with the sky.

It was as if someone had divided it with a gently curving line. Outside of the curve it was the same bright midday azure, but inside, the color had turned a shade deeper, as if evening was drawing near. Even the clouds had turned into a pale, winter gray. As they watched, this area slowly spread to the rim of the sun, and where it encroached the golden light dulled to a sunset orange. It was as if someone was putting a darkened glass over the face of the world.

For many minutes, the two of them silently watched the unearthly display. Harry found he could only look at it for a few minutes; if he looked too long, he though he might just go mad. But when he turned his eyes away, he saw a shadow, still in that perfectly curved line, falling over Hillsdale.

"What _is_ that?" he managed to whisper.

"The last time I laid eyes on it, we were neck-deep in the war against Grindelwald," Moody said beside him. Harry tore his gaze from the shadow to look at the old Auror. Moody's eyes held only horrified recognition.

"A Black Barrier."

* * *

Some hours before Harry woke up in his dingy little room in the Everglade, Minister Cornelius Fudge was hurrying through the marble hallway to his office. He did not usually come to work early, but today was an exception. At eight o'clock he had a meeting with the Amanda Bones, Head of Magical Law Enforcement to sort out the investigation on Southampton and Portsmouth. Ten would see a meeting with his advisers in preparation for a press conference at noon. And there he had to present whatever they had to the public and somehow reassure everyone that the situation was under control. 

It was only seven in the morning, and already the Minister of Magic knew the day ahead was not going to be kind to him. Whatever he had to say to the press had better be damned good.

He turned left at the end of the hallway and passed through the ivory archway into the main offices of the Ministry. Most of the wood and glass cubicles here were still empty; it would be an hour yet before the room would buzz anew with administrative life. As he crossed the carpeted floor to his area, he nodded to his secretary, Ms. Donegal, who raised her head at his approach.

"Minister, Lord Pudgewith called a few minutes ago," she said. "He wants to know if you're still on for a trip to the races this afternoon…"

"Please give him my deepest apologies," the Minister said quickly. "Urgent matters are at hand, I'm afraid. Ask if we could reschedule for two days from now." He doubted Lord Pudgewith kept up with current events, or even cared for that matter. Well, he could be ignored for now.

He strode past his secretary's desk, unlocked the door with his key and entered his office. As he hung his hat and green bowler coat on a nearby rack, he cast a look about the dimly lit room.

This was his favorite place, his comfort zone, and he never tired of seeing it. Built a hundred years ago, the Minister's office had been designed to at once impress and intimidate visitors. It was rectangular room twenty paces wide and twice as long, all of which was covered end to end by a fine Persian carpet. A huge mahogany desk with two gilded lamps dominated the far side of the room, and behind the desk was a large window that gave a spectacular view of the city. The left wall was lined from roof to ceiling with rare books on wizard history, economics and governance (Fudge had read perhaps six of them, but as he'd discovered on his long tenure, the mere impression of knowledge was often enough). The right wall, on the other hand, was almost completely obscured by the stuffed heads of fantastic beasts. Ranging from the antlord down to the zebrazelle, each letter of the alphabet had at least one representative present. There was even a head of the now extinct Croatoan, the largest crocodile species that ever existed. It was status symbol for any minister to contribute something new to this wall. Fudge knew, however, that at least half of those heads there had been secretly purchased from taxidermists (after all, the mere impression of skill was often enough). It was likely he'd go that way, too, before his term was over.

Well, he had no time to for lollygagging, he had a country to run. Fudge headed for his desk. He had just taken out his wand to light the wall lamps, when a voice said, "Good morning to you, Minister."

Fudge fairly jumped, nearly dropping his wand. The voice was deep and dusky, holding a little amusement.

"Who's there!" said Fudge, peering about his gloomy surroundings.

His eyes widened as he spied a pale face framed against the nestled shadows at the corner near his window. "W-who are you?" demanded Fudge. "What is the meaning of this? Did-did you schedule an appointment?"

The figure stepped out into the light of the window. He was a tall man, lean as a knife, with a bald pate and sharp features. A red satin scarf wrapped around his neck and was tucked into the front of his black robes. Dark round glasses completely obscured his eyes.

"Please forgive my rudeness, Minister Fudge," said the man. "I'm afraid I haven't scheduled an appointment, nor have I given any forewarning of my arrival. Nonetheless, it does not diminish the importance of my visit."

"Indeed?" Fudge raised an eyebrow. "And how, may I ask, did you find your way in here in the first place?" Fudge was prepared for times like these. There was small switch beside the lamp on his desk. One flick would summon a dozen Auror guards to his office. Feigning nonchalance, he walked towards his desk.

The man's hidden eyes seemed to follow him. "Your people did not have any qualms about allowing me in. I made them understand that I simply had to see you."

"And I suppose they just let you in? Remarkable." Later, he would see an investigation on the matter. But now he had to handle this intruder. Fudge felt he could turn the whole imposing manner of his office against this fool. But first, he had to take up position behind his mahogany desk.

The stranger took one sidestep and passed his hand three times over the left desk lamp. The light from the window faded and sounds from the outside fell still as the Security Charm activated. That stopped Fudge in his tracks.

"H-how did you know that was there?" he spluttered.

The man's grin was pointed. "I know a great many things about you, Minister," he said. "And for our discussion, I want us to have a little privacy."

"Tell me who you are," said Fudge, and there was the tiniest quaver in his voice. "Tell me or you'll be sorry."

The man nodded his greeting. "I am Andros Gallowbraid."

Fudge stared at him, then he threw back his head and laughed. _Gallowbraid?_ That was a good one. His mirth came not so much from the humor of it all, but from the sudden release of tension.

"All right," he chuckled. "All right, all right, I'll admit you nearly had me going there. So, who put you up to this? Colonel Fazackerly? He always enjoys a good laugh. Or was it one of my staff? Kelwyn? Quigley? Montague?"

Gallowbraid did not seem to mind Fudge's laughter at all. He leaned towards him, one hand on the table. "I am well aware that my name has turned into something of an urban legend, perhaps even a punch line, after all this time. Perhaps I deserve it, having lived so far from the public eye. Still, fact remains fact. I am who I am."

Fudge had already reached his desk and plopped down his huge chair. "So I'm to believe you are an infamous super-criminal that no one has ever laid eyes on," he chortled. "I supposed I can accept that. Why do you honor me with your presence today, Mr. Gallowbraid?"

"I bring a message for you from my employer."

"Do you? And who is this employer of yours? Rumpelstiltzkin? Baba Yaga? Santa Claus?"

"Lord Voldemort."

It was as if the very air around in the room had turned to ice water. A shiver ran down Fudge's spine, even as the mirth fled from his face. "How _dare_ you," he seethed. "How dare you say that name out loud! Have you no decency, man?"

Gallowbraid did not cease to smile, but it was not the smile of someone sharing a joke. Fudge did not like it. It looked—wolfish.

"You know," Gallowbraid said, "I suspected you would have a difficult time taking all this in. After all, you are an intelligent, reasonable man, someone not easily duped. We are the same in that respect. It won't be too difficult to create a meeting of minds, where two men of power may speak on equal terms."

"This joke has gone too far!" Fudge reached for the switch to call his guards. This comedian would be sorry he even thought of stepping into this office.

"_Put your hand down._"

Fudge's fingers stopped a scant inch from the switch. Something in the man's voice compelled him not to press it. He looked up, saw his reflection captured in the dark orbs of those glasses. Gallowbraid was not smiling anymore.

"As I said, I wish to create a meeting of minds between us. But that will only occur when the parties involved take each other seriously."

Fudge swallowed involuntarily, but kept his face as impassive as he could. Gallowbraid left his side and stood somewhere behind his chair. "There is something I would like to show you, Minister. Will you join me at the window?"

Again, compelled by something he could not explain, Fudge got up and stood beside his visitor. They looked out the window onto the street below.

The sidewalks teemed with people. Unnoticed by the Muggle majority, witches and wizards were out on their Sunday strolls. Some walked with their children, others took their pets disguised by Disillusionment Charms. Shoppers weaved in and out of buildings, while newsboys hawked the latest headlines at the street corners. In an alley, a lone saxophonist's tune was nearly buried beneath the bustling city life.

"Look at the intersection to your right," said Gallowbraid. "Do you see someone you know?"

The window was a mesh of wood and glass. Gallowbraid tapped a section to their right, and that frame magnified a section of the street. Fudge immediately caught the person Gallowbraid wanted him to see. It was none other than Colonel Derrick Fazackerly, second-in-command of the Magical Law Enforcement Department and head of the Hit-Wizard team. He had served as Fudge's personal bodyguard for many years before Fudge promoted him to his current station. The gray-haired gentleman stood at the corner with his hands in his pockets, waiting for a chance to cross the street.

"And there by the shoemaker's," Gallowbraid said, tapping another part of the window. "Do you see?"

The window magnified Jonathan Kelwyn, Fudge's right-hand man, standing at the store entrance and counting his change. Kelwyn was the brightest member of his staff, and had the knack for doing tasks without Fudge having to order him around.

"Finally, that white-haired lady sitting on the bench by the pharmacist's."

Said woman was Justice Rebecca Haley of the Wizard High Court. A humorless, dignified woman, Haley's knowledge of wizarding law was daunting, and her fame for impartial rulings even on the most one-sided of cases well earned. Today, she was spending her leisure time basking in the early morning warmth and feeding some pigeons with crumbs of bread.

"I've been busy visiting these people at their homes since yesterday morning," said Gallowbraid, watching the three images before them. "I was glad to find them extraordinarily accommodating towards me. In fact…" He lowered his head a little and intoned, "Over here."

The three people they were watching suddenly stopped what they were doing and turned their gazes to the Minister's window. Fudge's blood froze. With the magnified images, there was no questioning the looks of loyalty on their faces, looks he had seen only in the eyes of well-bred hunting dogs. The words were out of Fudge's mouth before his conscious mind could form them. "Imperius."

Gallowbraid chuckled. "Oh, nothing so crude, Minister. Just a little bit of Mesmery. You see, the Imperius engages the subject's mental facilities, using the power of suggestion to manipulate surface thoughts. Such tampering is becoming easy to detect nowadays. Mesmery, on the other hand, concentrates on the subject's emotions via delusions, and is far more difficult to distinguish. As such, I can inspire feelings of happiness and calm in a person. Or if I choose, despair, terror, even wrath. In your case, I aimed for a momentary obedience, and in theirs, a lifetime of devotion."

"H-how could you…?"

"Just a demonstration, Minister, of how serious I am, and how serious my employer is." Gallowbraid nodded, and the three wizards lowered their gazes and went about their business.

Fudge's throat was almost painfully dry. He wanted a drink, a glass of bourbon. "I've seen enough."

"I don't think so," Gallowbraid replied. "Please turn your attention to the corner café on this very street."

Helplessly, Fudge peered down at the Gotham Café. He had been there perhaps only twice. They had an ice cream bar and some tables on the sidewalk where customers could enjoy the sunlight and open air. When Gallowbraid magnified the image, the Minister let out a strangled gasp.

His wife Marlene was at one of the tables, reading the daily while sipping a cup of brewed coffee. Beside her sat their only daughter, Tara, wearing a white sundress and a wide-brimmed hat decked with delicate pink flowers. Marlene loved the coffee of Gotham Café, and never failed to stop by for a cup during her Sunday walks. This time she took their seven-year old girl with her, treating her to biscuits and a cup of strawberry ice cream.

But it was the woman sitting not far away from his family that arrested Fudge's attention. Cesca Whiteshore sat alone, her hands clasped before her on the white tablecloth. When he had first met here six years ago, she was working as an assistant at the Ministry Records Department. He had thought this young woman as mousy and reserved, but she was quite pretty behind those glasses. She was fond of music and dancing, easy to please and eager to return favors.

But this woman at the table was barely a wisp of that girl he met long ago. She wore worn work robes, and her chestnut hair was down, worming past her bespectacled face in oily little cords. Her fingers clasped and unclasped, twitching and troubling the table cloth before her.

She eyed Fudge's wife and daughter with a poisonous glare.

"I paid Cesca a visit yesterday," Gallowbraid casually said. "She was living in a dingy little flat near High Street. It looks like she hasn't done much for herself since you abandoned her."

"How…how did you know about her?" murmured Fudge, but Gallowbraid ignored his question.

"I stayed a while, and we talked for the better part of the afternoon. You know what I discovered? The poor girl's in love with you. She only realized it after you left her. For the past six years she's been trying to forget about you, but all her efforts proved fruitless. I suppose you were the only excitement she's had in her otherwise lackluster life as a glamorized librarian. It's such a shame you already have two wives: Marlene _and _your job. No room for poor Cesca.

"She blamed herself for a long time, thinking it was her fault you no longer fancied her. I think, though, she's recently had a change of heart."

Fudge suddenly found it difficult to breathe, but he could not make himself turn away. He could only watch as Cesca, still staring at his wife and child, reached one hand into her pocket.

Gallowbraid went on. "She blames _you_ now, Minister, for how miserable her life has become. Imagine her hatred, if you can. Imagine what it would feel like to be consumed by a feverish rage. Then imagine that feeling multiplied five, ten times, until you feel like there is a firestorm beneath your flesh. A woman possessed by something like that would be likely to do something…drastic."

Cesca pulled out her wand. Her eyes were wide and glaring, showing too much of the whites. Her wand hand was clenched and shaking feverishly. Fudge felt cold sweat dripping down his cheeks. "What is she doing there? What did you do to her?"

"I can see the headlines now," mused Gallowbraid. "_Mistress Massacres Minister's Family_. Won't take long for the press to find out the gory details, eh? Crimes of passion happen all the time, but such a terrible end to your illustrious career. I imagine you'd be forced to resign from the shame of it all. It's what a gentleman would do."

Cesca left her table and walked slowly towards Marlene and Tara. Nobody noticed her or the wand she held at her side. "No, no!" cried Fudge, grabbing Gallowbraid's sleeve. "S-stop her! Make her stop!"

"I don't think so," said Gallowbraid, meeting his eyes. "I have to show you why you should listen to me, Minister. Like my employer, I am a man of power. You'd do well to recognize that."

"All-all right, you made your point. Just—_please_, _for the love of Merlin, she's going to kill my daughter!_"

Cesca was three steps away from the girl. Fudge slammed his palms against the window pane, as if he could push himself into the image and restrain Cesca himself. Marlene's eyes still scanned the paper in her hands, and beside her Tara licked some melted ice cream from her fingers. Cesca raised her wand, trained it at the back of Tara's wide-brimmed hat.

Fudge screamed, "I'LL LISTEN, I SWEAR! I'LL DO ANYTHING YOU SAY! ANYTHING! JUST STOP HER!"

Gallowbraid snapped his fingers. Cesca halted where she was, blinking. Her wand hand faltered, dropped to her side. She looked from mother to daughter with horrified eyes, then she quickly turned and strode out of the café. Neither Marlene nor Tara noted her departure. Fudge watched Cesca walk down the street until she turned the corner and was gone.

"She will return home and attempt to forget about the whole thing," said Gallowbraid. "Perhaps she will think it a fever, or a delusion. Like the others, she won't remember me visiting her." He left Fudge's side and stood by the desk. The Minister stayed where he was, fingers splayed on the windowpane, eyes on his family. Mist formed on the glass near his nose. His vision was hazy, and he absently wiped his tears. Finally, he turned to face his tormentor.

Gallowbraid was leaning against his desk, eyeing him with a relaxed half-smile on his face. "Why don't you have a seat, Minister? I assure you we won't take long."

Legs weak and shivering, Fudge forced himself to move to his own chair and sit down. He could not believe all this had just happened, that his carefully wrought, orderly world could be smashed in such a small space of time.

"Y-you really come from…from the Dark Lord?" he murmured, head bowed.

Gallowbraid nodded once.

"And he's behind these attacks on Portsmouth and Southampton?"

"They were not attacks on Britain, Minister. They were battles, and the cities were the battlegrounds. The Order of the Phoenix wanted to drive us out of our dens. We defended ourselves, and they paid a heavy price for it. Ask the Auror team you sent to investigate, and their results will validate my claims."

"And…why are you here? Did the Dark Lord send you to…t-to get me?"

Gallowbraid laughed. "Not _get_ you, dear Minister. Nothing like that. You've noticed I've made no attempt to fully Mesmerize you or put you under the Imperius Curse. It would have been easy enough, but I decided that would not do. You would be completely loyal, but you would also be too happy to perform each of my requests to the letter, so much so you would have no room for creativity. You would lose your edge, your cunning, the skills that made you what you are now. And I don't want that. Neither of us would prosper.

"And thus, I come to you as an envoy, to offer a proposal. One where both sides stand to gain."

Fudge raised his head. "What sort of proposal?"

"A partnership. Our common purpose will be to remove a common thorn from our sides: Albus Dumbledore."

Fudge blanched. "Dumbledore."

"We want your aid. Your influence. We want you to help us put Dumbledore away for good."

The Minister gaped at him. It was true that he bore no love for Dumbledore and he couldn't be bothered to lie. But neither was he inclined to remove him!

Gallowbraid uncrossed his arms and started pacing around the room. "That man has never ceased to torment us, Minister. Even back in Lord Voldemort's weakened state, Dumbledore sent his agents far and wide, destroying our friends and hounding the Dark Lord to the fringes of civilization. And he will continue to do so, now that he's assembled his own army."

"_What?_"

"You know what I speak of. What else could the Order of the Phoenix be?"

"They…they were our allies. People who helped defend Britain—"

"And now, what are they? Whom do they serve? Have you accounted for the activities of these vigilantes? Do you know what they have planned?"

Fudge opened his mouth to speak, found no words forthcoming.

"I can answer that for you," Gallowbraid said. "They want exactly what we wanted more than a decade ago: dominion over Britain. Thus, they seek to put away all obstacles to their will." He stopped pacing and looked directly at Fudge. "I assure you, Minister Fudge, you have no friend in the old schoolmaster. Even now he plots against you. He knows he can't take your place because of the popular support you have earned through your own hard work. And so he will resort to less subtle means. A revolt."

"That's absurd! How could Dumbledore—"

"He will attempt to destabilize your government and cause chaos. When the people perceive the leadership to be weak and ineffectual, he will step in. You know I speak the truth. You suspected them too, did you not? Why else have your Aurors been looking for the Order ever since rumors of their resurgence surfaced?"

"But you ask for too much!" protested Fudge. "Do you realize that you're asking me to help you destroy the most influential wizard alive? To be an accomplice to the Dark Lord? Do you realize how many friends Dumbledore has ready to help him?"

Gallowbraid was examining the open jaws of the Croatoan, testing the dagger teeth his fingers. "And are you telling me you have no friends of your own? That your influence is weaker than Dumbledore's? You're saying your all teeth and no bite?"

"That's not what I—"

"Why would I come to you if you were weak? Surely I would have done something else worth my time. I believe you are capable, Minister. Very capable." Gallowbraid turned to him, sunlight flashing on his glasses.

"Listen. This is what we want you to do.

"First, you will order a more intensive search for all suspected members of the Order of the Phoenix. In today's press conference, announce that you are investigating reports that the Order was behind the attacks of Portsmouth and Southampton. Fear not, your Aurors will have enough evidence. They have an Order agent in custody with some….interesting things to say.

"Second, you will report all findings directly to me. I will take up residence in a nearby inn, and everyday you will confer with me using a secure line. For my part, I will give you further guidance on how to defeat the Order.

"Lastly, you will call the Chief of Magical Law Enforcement and the Head of National Security immediately after this meeting. You will tell them that, given the magnitude of the threat to our country, you have no choice but to erect a Black Barrier."

Fudge stared at him, mouth agape. "You-you can't mean that!"

Gallowbraid raised an eyebrow. "You know the Order uses Portkeys to move their army all over Britain. The Black Barrier will take care of this maneuverability. It will make them vulnerable."

"How can I possibly give that order? It will disrupt the economy! Transportation will be in an uproar! The public will—"

"They will do everything you say, Minister. Do not underestimate your power. You are living in desperate times, fighting a hidden enemy. You need desperate measures. And if anyone in the government should question your judgment, let me know who they are. I will convince them."

Fudge buried his face in his hands. He felt hot, almost feverish. "How can I even contemplate all this? How can you expect me to say yes?"

Gallowbraid shrugged. "Why not? What do you stand to gain if Dumbledore gets his way? In a year's time, maybe less, the people will be tearing down the Ministry, demanding he take your place. But if you unmask him for what he really is, if the public sees you defeating a threat to their freedom, will they not love you all the more? Now tell me, will you gain anything otherwise? I assure you, Minister, you only stand to gain if you stand with us."

Fudge lifted his eyes. "And what will the Dark Lord give me if I agree?"

Gallowbraid held up his palms in a welcoming gesture. "Now you are talking sense, Minister. Very well. If you choose to aid us, Lord Voldemort guarantees that you will remain Minister of the wizards of Britain. You will have no political opponents you cannot defeat, and all insurgencies will be immediately taken care of. The Dark Army will maintain a minimal presence in Britain—for we have higher goals elsewhere, after all—and will leave you to rule, though we would like to maintain a treaty of mutual assistance, a respectful relationship between men of power. All we ask for now, as I have said, is to help defeat our mutual enemy."

"I…I don't know. I need time to think. If you can give me some days to consider—"

"I'm afraid the Black Barrier is non-negotiable. It must be up today, before morning is over. You have four hours."

Fudge gaped at him. "But—"

"I should be going now. Think it over, Minister, and we shall leave it at this: if the Black Barrier goes up before noon today, then we have a deal. If it doesn't, then we don't. Quite simple, don't you think?"

Gallowbraid started down the office towards the door. Fudge stared at his receding form, then in a sudden burst of indignation, shouted, "How can you be so sure I won't turn on you? That I won't tell my Aurors to hunt you down the moment you leave this room?"

Gallowbraid stopped and turned to face him. Again that pointed, merciless smile. "How do you know the next person you talk to in this building isn't someone under my influence? It would be like dancing on a minefield, Minster. I have many Death Eaters beneath me, and as you've seen we can pull a great many strings." He thought for a minute, then added, "Yes, I suppose you might succeed one way or another. After all, all I can do for now is watch and wait.

"I'll give you fair warning, though." He reached for his glasses, lowered them just a fraction of an inch. "I keep a very good watch."

And when Fudge saw what lay behind those dark lenses, he uttered a feeble cry and shrank back, cowering behind an upraised hand. I was just a peek, but it enough. Where Gallowbraid's left eye should be, there was only a gaping empty socket. But his right eye—only a demon could have an eye like that. It was sleek and sharp as a wolf's, and colored cancerous yellow from top to bottom. The iris was a silver coin, the cornea slanted like a black fang and was never still; it shivered and undulated like a snake in still water.

Jagan, the Evil Eye. One look could drive a man stark-raving mad.

"Please, don't hurt me," Fudge whimpered. "Don't hurt me."

He heard receding steps, but still he did not lower his hand. "Fear not, my dear Minister," Gallowbraid called to him from somewhere near the door. "We're not barbarians, you know. But there's a saying that goes, 'if you dance with the bear, you can't stop when you're tired.' Should you betray us, I'll know, and I'll surely pay you another visit. Or perhaps this time, it will be your wife and daughter. Either way, I will no longer consider us equals.

"I trust you will make the right choice."

He shut the door and the Security Charm disengaged. Light flooded in, as did the chatter of workers in the next room. Fudge peeked out from behind his hand and saw he was finally alone.

For the next half hour, he sat very still. He did not think in his usual way, sober, straightforward, all-business. His thoughts ran here and there, like a mouse in a maze that had no exit. He thought of his long tenure as Minister. He thought of his wife and his little daughter. He thought of his future. Then his eyes fell on the stuffed head of the Croatoan, once the greatest predator of the Amazon. It stared back at him in a silent snarl—fearsome, menacing, and utterly impotent.

_I trust you will make the right choice._

Finally, after many more agonizing minutes, he reached for the gilded communicator beside his chair. There was crackling noise on the end as his secretary's voice came on. "Yes, Minister?"

In a barely audible voice, Fudge said, "Get the Chief of Magical Law Enforcement and the Head of National Security in my office. Right now."

* * *

Somewhere in Cornwall, Stan Shunspike sat in the back of the parked Knight Bus, fiddling with the knobs of his tiny enchanted telly. Stan had been using the telly to contact his old mother in Evensdale, and was surprised and peeved that all he could get from it was noisy static. 

And in The Summit, Lyle listened gravely to the radio as the press conference wore on. Minister Fudge was answering questions: yes, the Ministry is starting a thorough investigation on the Order of the Phoenix, and yes, we have one of their agents in custody and undergoing tactical interrogation, and yes, a reward will be offered for information regarding the Order's whereabouts. Beside Lyle, Marius was reporting on Birmingham's status in a tone of half-concealed panic: none of our Portkeys were functioning, mobility's been reduced by 50, some of their teams were caught without back-up, and the rest are waiting anxiously for orders.

"Voldemort," was all Lyle said.

And in Hogwarts, Ron Weasley was on his way back to Gryffindor to meet Hermione, when he passed near a window where a cluster of students were gathered. Some were pointing and muttering among themselves. One of them shrieked, another burst into frightened tears, prompting Ron to run over and ask what was going on. He fell silent when he saw the curved line eating into the sky, and deepening hue that followed it. None of them knew what it was, but they all knew it meant no good. Ron stared at it for a long time, his head empty of thought. But black fear welled up in his chest, for himself and for his friend, somewhere in the wilderness.

And in his tower high atop the school, Albus Dumbledore also watched as the Barrier stole even the brightness of the sun. His face was impassive, but no onlooker could have mistaken the look of deepening anger in his ancient eyes.

And in his tower on Onyx Isle, the Dark Lord watched Britain fall under the shadow of the Barrier, and laughed.

* * *

When the sky above them had turned a deep ultramarine and the clouds an odd goose gray, Harry found he could not bear to look anymore. Instead, he crouched down next to Moody. The old Auror was sitting on the grass and smoking on his pipe, a frown of deep concentration on his face. His Dark Detectors formed a loose circle around them, seeming such a flimsy defense in their bleak situation. 

"I don't understand," said Harry. "What's a Black Barrier?"

"A field of magical energy," Moody explained, "visible only to wizards and other magical folk. Powerful abjuration magic. Grindelwald had used it back in the war to keep us Aurors out of his territories. We thought the last of those devices had been destroyed."

"So Voldemort's behind this? He's got one of those things?"

"Doubt it. Takes an incredible amount of magical energy to even get a Barrier started. The only one who can tap into such an amount at a constant rate would be the Ministry." He paused. "Fudge."

"The Ministry? But why would they do something like that?"

"Who knows? A lot of things could've happened while we were busy out here. I'd call Dumbledore to know the score, but…" He gestured at the gas lamp in front of him. He had been trying to get through for the last fifteen minutes, to no avail.

Harry eyed the equally useless Portkey, still sticking out of the ground in front of them. So close, so far. Something inside of him felt like breaking beneath the weight of such disappointment. "The Barrier's stopping us from getting home?"

"The first thing it does is prevent any entry using magic," said Moody. "No one can Apparate into an area covered by a Black Barrier. Floo Powder doesn't work, the same with Portkeys. The only safe way to cross the Barrier is to walk through it. But doing so will send a signal to the Barrier's controller, and he'll know exactly when and where the Barrier was breached. It makes surprise attacks impossible.

"The second thing it does is disrupt all unsanctioned magical means of travel and communication within its coverage area. Illegal Portkeys like ours are useless. The Floo Network will be strictly monitored: you can't even get to the house across the street without the Ministry's nod." He scratched his chin. "This also means that the Order's Portkey and communications systems have been sabotaged. They'll have to resort to brooms and owls, which are easier to detect—exactly what the Dark Lord wants."

Harry leaned back, "I honestly think our cover's been blown. Voldemort must've found out that I've slipped out of Hogwarts. Why else would he send Death Eaters here?"

Moody reflected a moment, then replied, "If Voldemort knew exactly where you are now, he wouldn't bother sending in a small group to investigate. We'd be up to our armpits in Death Eaters. No, I don't think he knows exactly what's going on, or what we're doing. It's more likely he's gotten wind of Order presence here, then sent someone to investigate. But that doesn't matter now. Bottom line is, we can't stay there." He put out his pipe, nodding to himself. "We have to get to the nearest Order outpost."

"And where's that?"

"Dunwick village, some twenty miles north of here."

Harry paled. It would take too long. He couldn't even fully walk yet

But his bodyguard was right. They had no choice but to move on

"Maybe the Order will send someone out here to get us," Moody continued, as if to reassure him, "but we can't rely on that. We have to keep moving. Hopefully, we'll meet them halfway and save us most of the trip. From Dunwick, we'll be escorted to Hogwarts."

Harry shook his head, fighting off his despair. No way was he going give up and let Voldemort win. They were too close. All they had to do was get to Hogwarts, and the Dark Lord wouldn't be able to touch them. All they had to do was _get home_.

But he decided he wasn't going to do it alone.

"Well…" Moody got up and put on his hat. "Least we've got a plan. What're we waiting for?"

"You should know," said Harry, frowning up at him. "We have to get Danny back first. We can't leave him here—it's too dangerous. Besides, it wasn't his fault that the Portkey didn't work."

Moody fell silent, his magical eye looking at anything except Harry. Harry rolled his own eyes. "Look, we're not going to get far with just the two of us, especially in the state I'm in. Think about it—it'll be safer we all work _together_."

"Safer? With _him _around?" muttered Moody, "I highly doubt that." But he bent down and hauled Harry to his feet. Together, they hobbled out of the meadow to look for the Auror's godson.

_To be continued_

_Next episode… _

"_HARRY'S WHAT!"_

— _Sirius Black_

_Chapter XIV: The Serpent By The Footpath_


	14. Through a Glass Darkly

**The Phoenix and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter XIV: Through A Glass Darkly**

Walking through the halls of Hogwarts that afternoon, he pondered on the steadily rising flurry of needless activity around him. With the coming of the Black Barrier, people now tended to move in clusters, whispering to each other through cupped hands, heads bowed and manner subdued. Once in a while he would see one of the First Years crying, murmuring about not having heard from their parents since it had all began. Owls sent from school had been turned back in droves. Hardly anyone knew anything, save for that one announcement: the Ministry had covered the whole of Britain with a magical dome, to "protect us from enemies of the state."

People had a word for what was going on around him: panic. Everyone, from the members of the faculty to the grimy castle keeper, was in a state of quiet panic. No matter who they were or what they were doing, sooner or later their eyes would be drawn helplessly out the window to the unnatural sky beyond.

The only ones who were not panicking, it seemed, were himself and Professor Dumbledore. Well, what was there to be afraid of? No force on earth could overcome Professor Dumbledore, and as long the headmaster was alive, he, the homunculus, had nothing to fear—not pain, not hunger, not death.

Death. Was that why people were so fearful now, because they were afraid of dying? "Death" was a foreign concept to the homunculus. Like other words such as "love" and "friendship," his understanding went as deep as the definition and no further. But as he watched them worry among themselves, he wondered if he should at least try to look more troubled.

Would Harry Potter be troubled? His progenitor was difficult to decipher at times. He could recall moments when Harry feared for his life, yet there were others when his own safety was the furthest thing from his mind. Memories were such tricky things: he possessed in his head all there was to know about Harry, could picture each actual event down to the smallest detail, but the feelings behind them were so difficult to understand.

Perhaps he could show sympathy towards Ron. He overheard him saying to Hermione that his family had been forced to evacuate from their home, the Burrow, as it was now too close to Dark Army territory. How pained his face had looked as he spoke. The homunculus did not understand how it could hurt to lose one's house, but he was willing to help in any way. He had thought of talking to Ron, but was afraid of seeing his cold stare again. The homunculus had seen that look once before, the first time he called Ron by name. Since then the homunculus never tried it again.

Hermione was more willing to talk to him. Her explanations of the world around him were quite helpful, and she was the only other person interested in any sense of normalcy between the three of them. But like Ron, she was not as he remembered her. She had the air of a fascinated observer standing behind a glass wall. She never once shared a friendly conversation, or any sort of pleasant moment with the homunculus. With Harry she was…bossier. Opinionated. Warmer.

The homunculus shrugged as he climbed the stairs to the second floor. All this didn't terribly bother him, and in a few days it would cease to matter altogether. Harry was due to come home by the weekend. Things would return to the how they were, and the homunculus could go back to sleep at last.

He paused beside an arched window on the landing and looked through the glass. Outside, leaves were raining down from the trees onto the courtyard, where little eddies of air picked them up and tossed them about in a frenetic jig. Sights such as these never failed to fascinate the homunculus. It was a terrible pity, he thought, that people always seemed to rush about, worrying about their lives, yet never seemed remember that they _were_ alive. Just beyond this glass there was a whole universe of leaves spinning about, and it was the most beautiful thing in the world.

"I guess I'm lucky that I notice these things," he said out loud.

"Notice what, Potter?" said a familiar, drawling voice behind him.

The homunculus nearly jumped. He knew exactly whom that voice belonged to; he had been doing his best to avoid that person all this time.

He turned to see Draco Malfoy descending the stairs. Flanking him were his two self-styled bodyguards, Crabbe and Goyle, and peering over his shoulder like an emaciated parrot was Pansy Parkinson. Behind them followed a coterie of some half-a-dozen Slytherins. No doubt they had all just finished a recent class.

"Well, well," said Malfoy. "Talking to yourself, now, Potter? Just a step away from the nuthouse now, I see. But then, it was never really much of a long walk for you, was it?"

A chorus of sniggering followed his remark. The homunculus had to stop himself from copying the action out of reflex. "Why are you here?" he asked in a level tone.

"Oh, no reason, no reason at all." Malfoy leaned on the windowsill, still giving the boy before him an amused look. "I just find myself rather happy today. Good breakfast, good company, beautiful sky outside..." He glanced out the window at the Black Barrier.

The homunculus' eyes widened. "People are scared of that thing out there, Malfoy. I don't find that something to be happy about."

Malfoy shrugged, still smiling. "Some people have more reason to be scared than others. How about you, Potter? You worried yet, now that the Dark Lord's getting stronger? Perhaps you're even losing it; is that why I find you talking to yourself now?" He tapped his skull for emphasis. Beside him, Crabbe gave a bull-like snort.

"I'm not—" began the homunculus.

"Or maybeit's your friends, Weasel and Mudblood, I should be talking about," Malfoy mused. "I heard Weasel and his family had to clear out of their house, or whatever passes for a house, in any case. Running scared of the Dark Army, it seems. Does he blame you, Potter? You did bring the Dark Lord back, after all. Is he mad at you? Is that why he's avoiding you?"

"My friends aren't avoiding me," the homunculus stated in what he hoped was a defiant enough tone. "They're still good company. I can't say the same for you."

Malfoy curled his lip. "I wouldn't know about that, Potter. I'm not the one who's alone here, am I?"

The homunculus paused as the double meaning of the words sank in. For the first time he felt the number of eyes around him. The Slytherins wore smirks on their faces. Goyle leaned back on the U of the railing, grinning broadly. Parkinson's eyes glittered; she was craning her long neck over the crowd like some ugly jack-in-the-box. They all hung on Malfoy's every word, waiting for the chance to cheer him on. Maybe even get in on the act.

The homunculus's hand involuntarily tightened around the windowsill. Why was Malfoy doing this? Was he simply feeling happy about the Black Barrier? Because he feels he and his ilk have the upper hand? Then he realized it was a lot simpler than that—there were new faces in the Slytherin crowd around him. Malfoy was trying to impress the First Years. He wanted to show them he was big enough to bully Harry Potter.

The homunculus took a deep breath and returned Malfoy's gaze stoically.

"Oh? What's with the look, Potter? Was it something I said?" Malfoy stepped forward, and his voice dropped a menacing notch. "C'mon, then. Unless you're too scared, of course."

'He's trying to bait me,' thought the homunculus. Dumbledore had warned him to avoid this sort of situation, and that was exactly what hewas going to do.

"Leave me alone, Malfoy," he said.

At first, the blond boy just stared at him. Then he threw back his head and laughed. As if from a secret command, the others behind him started shaking in mirth.

"'Leave me alone, Malfoy?'" he guffawed. "'Leave me alone?' That's the best you could come up with, Potter? I thought you'd be more imaginative. Well, no, that's not quite true. I don't think you have anything but owl dung between your ears, and not enough guts to get out from behind the headmaster's robes."

"He's just a spineless wimp!" laughed a Slytherin boy.

"Some Boy-Who-Lived!" chortled a new girl.

To this, the homunculus crossed his arms and said nothing; Malfoy was insulting Harry, after all, not him. So he just stared back blankly, mirroring exactly how he felt inside.

Malfoy instantly switched tactics. "While we're talking, Potter, I just realized—I've been an utter boor to you. I've never thanked you for retiring early from Quidditch. I dare say the games were far more entertaining without you there."

'Meaning, the only way you can win the Cup is if Harry doesn't play,' the homunculus mentally countered. But still he stayed silent, even as the Slytherins hurled more insults his way.

After a few more minutes of this, Malfoy's eyes began to narrow in anger. He was getting frustrated, the homunculus realized. Maybe being witty was too much work.

"Speaking of Quidditch," Malfoy snapped, "are you still crying over Cedric, Potter? Still waking up in the middle of the night with a wet face and snot up your nose? Still calling out for him like he was your mum? Maybe you've secretly—"

"Aren't you finished yet?" the homunculus interrupted. "I've got better things to do than watch you hurt yourself coming up with insults. " He turned towards the stairs down.

Something about his disinterested tone must've gotten to Malfoy, because heshouted, "You think you're really something, don't you? Just because you've got a crack on your forehead and a headmaster you can order around like a whipped dog—"

The homunculus spun on his heel.

"DON'T YOU TALK ABOUT PROFESSOR DUMBLEDORE THAT WAY!"

Stunned, Malfoy fell silent, falling back when the homunculus advanced on him.

Without knowing what he was saying or why, the homunculus yelled, "Professor has done nothing but care for each and every single living being here in Hogwarts, including idiotic, ungrateful louts like you! You can't even hope to achieve a fraction of his greatness! I won't let him be insulted by someone lower than a flobberworm, lower than pond scum, by a...a witless, gutless, chinless git whose only talent is spending his father's money in the shortest time possible!"

He was out of breath by the last word, and was suddenly aware of the deep silence that had fallen over the place. His anger left him as quickly as it had come. Now I've done it, he thought. Malfoy's eyes had taken on a dangerous look.

Suddenly unsure of himself, he backed away and turned to go. Goyle suddenly loomed before him, blocking the way with his bulk. "You get to go if _and_ when we say so," he growled. Crabbe and two other Slytherin boys appeared beside the homunculus and pushed him back to the windowsill.

The homunculus felt his pulse quickening, and wondered if this meant he was "afraid." Why did he lose his temper in the first place? How did he even get that temper, anyway?

Crabbe shoved him again. The homunculus felt the edge of the sill bite into the small of his back and he cried out. Before he could regain his balance, the two other Slytherins restrained his arms. He straightened up as well as he could, then his eye caught a familiar shade of red near the second floor railing. Ginny Weasley was there, books clutched to her chest, watching the events on the landing with wide eyes. He had no idea how long she'd been standing there, but seeing her now gave him an inexplicable sense of hope. They locked gazes for a moment, but Ginny turned away and hurried down the hall. The homunculus' heart sank. She was out of sight before a curious Slytherin turned to see what he'd been looking at.

He forgot all about her the next moment as a hand dug into his pocket and fished out his wand. Malfoy walked in front of him, tapping the wand against his shoulder.

"You'll pay for those words, Potter," he said with studious calm. Slowly, he aimed the tip of the wand against Harry's forehead. "If I curse you with your own wand, they won't be able to trace it to me, will they? I get a free shot at you, Potter—it'd be a pity to waste it."

The homunculus watched the tip of the wand sway a few inches from his eyes. Malfoy, however, was not done relishing his control. "So what shall I do to you?" he asked, smirking. "Shall I make warts explode over your face? Or maybe make your nose drip faster than a leaking faucet?"

'How about making my ears disappear so I won't have to hear your babbling,' thought the homunculus, and just as quickly realized that it wasn't very wise to say this out loud.

The good news was his wand could not actually do anything harmful. It was an imitation meant to fool teachers—Dumbledore had pre-programmed it with this year's curriculum of spells. But the bad news was, if Malfoy used it now, he would immediately find out it was a fake. And he could easily pass that detail on to someone else, someone who would find Harry owning a fake wand very strange indeed. Strange enough to start an investigation.

Heart hammering, the homunculus tried to pull his arms loose. The boys held him fast, wide grins on the faces. Desperate, he played the last card he had, "Dumbledore will hear about this!"

Malfoy just grinned and pointed the wand straight the homunculus' scar. As the homunculus watched Malfoy's face he realized, quite suddenly, that some people actually derived pleasure just from being cruel.

"_Put that down right now!_"

The voice came like a thunderclap. Malfoy jumped, dropped his hand, and turned all at the same time. Everyone turned to face the newcomer, who was descending from the second floor two steps at a time.

"P-Professor Summershield," said Malfoy, as the crowd quickly parted to let her through. "This...this is a surprise!"

The Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher came to halt before them, her beautiful face marred by a frown. Today she had tied back her raven locks into a ponytail, giving her a sterner look. "I'm sure you find it so, Mr. Malfoy," she said flatly. "Might I ask what you think you were doing with that wand?"

The homunculus watched Malfoy's mouth open and close a few times, as if by doing it the blond boy could jog his communication skills. "We...we were just, um..."

"Yes?"

Malfoy looked helplessly around him. Finally, Parkinson squeaked, "Potter tripped, Professor. We were just helping him up. Draco here as about to give him back his wand—isn't that right, Draco dear?"

'Draco dear' nodded in obvious relief.

"That's a lie!" cried the homunculus.

"I know it is, Mr. Potter," said Summershield. "I know exactly what I saw." Her gazed flicked to the Slytherins flanking the homunculus, then bored straight through Malfoy.

"Professor," said Malfoy, frowning, "I hope you don't seriously believe we were attempting to hurt Potter..."

"You were holding a wand to his face, Mr. Malfoy. What do you expect me to think? That you had the sudden urge to clean his glasses? Perhaps show him a few pointers on skin care?"

"We didn't harm a hair on his head, Professor," Crabbe warbled.

"That is the only reason why I'm not going to recommend any of you for expulsion!" she snapped. "As it is, your actions today have just cost Slytherin House thirty points—"

Howls of protest erupted. Summershield's dark eyes flashed. "AND! A week's worth of detention for everyone present, adding one day for each further complaint I hear."

Everyone fell silent, except for Malfoy, "My father," he said in a low voice, "is a member of the Board of Trustees in Hogwarts. I suggest you think about your future here, Professor, because he will soon be hearing about this injustice from me."

"He'll be hearing of this 'injustice' a second time then, because I intend to tell him myself. I don't particularly care if your father happens to be King Oberon of Fae, Mr. Malfoy. I'm not impressed by status, and even less so by ill-conceived threats. I _will_ see you all after classes today. You may leave."

Malfoy clamped his lips shut to stop an angry retort. He turned and strode down the stairs to the first floor. His coterie silently followed him, leaving Summershield and the homunculus alone on the landing.

The professor let out a long sigh. "I don't know about you," she said, "but it seems that all this inbreeding between Pureblood families has done nothing but bring out the worst in their children. Well, Mr. Potter, I trust you are all right?"

The homunculus was dusting his robes,familiarizing himself with the feeling of "relief." "I am, Professor," he said. "Thanks for helping me."

The frown on her brows softened. "I didn't really do much of a counter-threat, you know. With the Black Barrier up, our owls don't get very far before they're sent back, so I can't exactly inform his father about this."

"I doubt Malfoy's father would actually care. You'll only get yourself in trouble."

She shrugged. "I'm not worried. There's a value in what I do, after all. I find it best to stop bullies when they're young. Later on they're capable of doing real damage." She paused, then remarked, "I've heard a lot about you two from other professors, but this is the first time I've seen this antagonism."

The homunculus thought back on Harry's probable reaction, then replied, "I can handle myself Professor. No need to worry on my account. I won't give in to him just because he thinks he's a god-child."

"I see," she sighed again. "I don't approve of any sort hostility, Potter, from either you or Malfoy. But I do understand who is at fault here.Mr. Malfoy will learn live and let live one way or another, I'll see to that. In the meantime, do your best to avoid him. Understand?"

The homunculus nodded, not knowing what to say. It was the first time that he felt someone other than Dumbledore was firmly on his side.

"And if there is anything you want to talk about," she said, "any trouble at all, my office door is open. Teachers are human too, you know?"

"I...yes, thanks. I guess I was lucky you came around when you did."

Summershield smiled at him, "Oh, it was no accident. Someone came into the lounge and—" there was a sudden chiming noise, and she checked her pocket watch. "I'll be going now," she said, frowning again. "We're having a faculty conference in a few minutes. Good day, Potter."

The homunculus watched as she hurried down the stairs and vanished around the bend. Then he slowly started up to the second floor. He had no idea where he was going now, only that he didn't want to stay where he was.

'What just happened?' he wondered, brushing the hair from his forehead.

He paused at the top of the stairs, trying to think of where to go. Gryffindor? The Owlery? The Great Hall? Hogwarts never seemed so big just now.

"Are you sure you're okay?" a soft voice asked him.

Startled, the homunculus turned to his right. Ginny was standing against the wall by the stairs, hands behind her back. Her books were in a neat little stack at her feet.

"Ginny..." the homunculus began, and suddenly remembered what the Professor had been saying before she left. "Ginny, were you the one...you were the one who called Professor Summershield?"

She nodded, keeping her gaze averted. "I figured I couldn't help you by myself. So I went to find someone who could."

"I...I guess I should thank you," said the homunculus.

She lifted her eyes. "Don't mention it. It's just that, well, I hate bullies. Especially that rotten Malfoy!"

"You do? I mean, yeah, you do."

"They were ganging up on you! I can't believe even he would stoop so low, but I guess I'm just being too kind. Malfoy doesn't belong in Hogwarts, he belongs under a rock! I couldn't just let that git get away with what he was doing—"

She caught herself, and lowered her voice. "Anyway, I'm glad you're okay. That's all."

The homunculus nodded, though he did not understand why she would be "glad." "Is that the reason you helped me?" he asked. "Because you hate Malfoy? I mean, I thought you didn't like me anyway, so..."

She shook her head. "Um, no. I-it's not that I don't like you...um...well..."

An awkward silence fell.

Ginny looked from one end of the empty hallway to the other, as if looking something. Finally she gazed back at him and said, "Look, the reason why I've been avoiding you all this time is...well...I know."

The homunculus blinked, then gaped at her as it sunk in.

"You..._know_? About _me_?"

She nodded. "Harry and Professor Dumbledore told me."

"I...I see." The homunculus brushed back his hair from his forehead. "But...I still don't understand. Why _did_ you help me?"

She gave him an incredulous look, as if the answer was quite obvious. "Because you were in trouble! Do I need a better reason?"

"Oh." He looked about, as if searching for an escape. "Well, t-that makes sense, I suppose."

"Yeah."

"Right."

"Mhn."

Another awkward silence.

"Well," said Ginny. "I, I think you're fine. Now, that is. I...I don't hate you or anything. So I guess we can be..." She gestured,fumbling for words.

"Sure," the homunculus finished for her. "Glad to hear it." He really was. He felt very light all of a sudden.

"All right then." She perked up a little. "Well, um, I... I...guessIhavetogonowseeyoulaterbye!" She picked up the books near her feet and started down the hall.

"Okay." The homunculus waved a little as she walked away. Then called to her, "Um, say, where're you headed?"

She turned, eyeing him quizzically. "Me? To the library. I have to return these books I borrowed. Then maybe I'll just go sit in the Great Hall for a bit. I don't have much to do, now that I think about it."

"Oh, okay."

She nodded, then turned to go again.

"Say," the homunculus blurted out, "d'you...d'you mind if I come along? I don't really have much to do either."

She stopped and gazed at him, an uncertain look in her eyes.

"That is," the homunculus said, "if you don't mind the company."

Ginny bit her lower lip. She did not seem to know what to say.

"We don't have to talk," he mumbled. "I-I can just stay quiet if you like."

"No, no, it's not that. It's...just," she stopped, grasping for words. The homunculus watched her, trying to get an inkling of what she was feeling. But he could not even begin to read the expression on her face.

Finally, the look in her eyes changed, as if she just remembered something. She shrugged and gave a small smile.

"Oh, why not? Sure, come along if you like."

The homunculus nodded, suddenly relieved. Together they started down the hall again toward the library. As he fell in step beside her, he gave a little smile himself, though he didn't exactly know why.

* * *

"_HARRY'S WHAT?" _

Sirius was only dimly aware of his chair clattering behind him; he had leaped to his feet the moment the news registered in his brain. His left arm, strapped in a sling, was pressed tightly against his chest. His right arm planted itself on the table as he leaned forward, glaring down at the man who was seated on the other side. He had been called from Birmingham, just as he was recuperating from his wounds from the last battle, when their commander suddenly dumped this unhappy piece of news on him.

Lyle Bishop did not flinch at the tone of Sirius's voice. As ever, his face held a look of utmost calm. However, the winged pixie on his shoulder immediately took refuge behind the commander's backrest.

Sirius continued to glower at him. "Will the Commander kindly explain what he just said?"

"I…I don't understand, Lyle," said Remus, who was sitting beside his co-captain. "You mean to tell us Harry's out of Hogwarts?"

"As I have said," Lyle replied, "Harry is on a secret mission to retrieve an artifact that has great potential in our struggle against Lord Voldemort. Professor Dumbledore believed that Harry alone could retrieve it, and the boy agreed to go."

"Good!" cried Sirius. "Bloody good! While we're at it, let's make Harry a member of the Order! Give him a rank! Put him in the front lines!"

"The mission was appraised to have a fair chance of success," Lyle went on, "and it was not as if he had gone on his own. Mad-Eye Moody and his associate, Daniel Oaks, went with him as his bodyguards. In addition, preparations had been made so that the operation could proceed with utmost secrecy—"

"Right!" added Sirius. "Not even _I_ found out! Never mind that I'm a member of the Order _and_ his godfather!"

Lyle took a deep breath. "You understand a mission of this nature needed to be handled with the utmost care…"

"I understand that a sixteen-year old boy had been sent on your hair-brained scheme to retrieve some mystical knick-knack that's supposed to single-handedly defeat the Dark Lord!"

"Incorrect. This wasn't my hair-brained scheme. This was Dumbledore's."

"I DON'T CARE!" shouted Sirius. "This is idiotic! He's just a child! He shouldn't even have been allowed to step one foot out of Hogwarts!"

Remus interrupted, "How long have you known about this, Lyle?"

"Little more than week," he replied. "Dumbledore told me a large part of his plan soon after I became Commander."

"And this artifact you mentioned is supposed to do exactly what?"

Lyle shrugged. "That, not even I know. Dumbledore's keeping that to himself."

"And he didn't bother to have me informed?" demanded Sirius.

"The harsh answer to that," replied Lyle, "is that given the circumstances, I decided it better you were not informed."

"Better I was not—_I am his godfather, for the love of_…"

"I heard you the first time, Captain Black. Now sit down."

"But—"

Lyle's brows knitted just a fraction. "_Sit_."

Sirius gritted his teeth, but Remus righted his chair, took hold of his elbow and guided him down to his seat.

"You were not told all this at the beginning," Lyle began, "because at the time this war started, you and Captain Lupin were assigned to the front lines. Your focus and participationwere essential to the fight, and I do not mince words when I say that had it not been for the two of you our first crucial victories would not have been possible. Tell me, then, from a commander's standpoint, what it would have served if you had known young Harry was on a mission of his own?"

"You're saying I wouldn't have done my job?"

"I'm saying you would have been distracted. And in the front lines, that's the quickest way to get you and your men killed."

"But—"

"If you do not think that likely, allow me to present another scenario. Let's say the enemy captured you. The Death Eaters recognize you as the captain. They decide to put you under the Imperius Curse, and order you to tell them all you know. Despite your best efforts, you tell them you are Sirius Black, a core member of the Order of the Phoenix, and that your nephew, Harry Potter, is currently out of the shadow of his protector Dumbledore and wandering around Britain. They relay this information to Voldemort. What then, Sirius? You'd be dead, Harry would be hunted down, and the entire mission would've been for nothing."

Sirius stared at Lyle. He could not think of a single thing to say.

"That's…rather extreme, Commander," said Remus.

"It's a possibility," said Lyle, getting up from his chair, "and one I'd rather avoid. I am sorry I had to keep this from you. Believe me, it was a difficult decision to make. But now there is a need for you to know. I'm offering you a chance to do something about our current dilemma."

"Meaning?" muttered Sirius.

"Meaning you get to do exactly what you want to do: look for your godson." Lyle pointed at the map on the table. "This is the town of Hillsdale, where we last had contact with Mad-Eye and his charge. The Black Barrier has cut their means of transportation and communication. We are not certain if they're still there, but there's a chance that they are. Captain Black, your mission is to locate them and bring them immediately to Headquarters. Captain Lupin, you will go with him, but I expect you back here two days before the full moon. Otherwise, take your platoon and whatever else you need to fulfill this task."

"I take it Dumbledore's arranging the transportation?" Remus queried.

"Dumbledore knows nothing about what we're doing," Lyle replied. Both captains blinked in surprise. Lyle went on, "I'm not going to wait for him to decide for us. I don't think time is our side on this one. We've got to move quickly."

"Fine," said Sirius, "as long as Harry's going to be there when we get there."

"If they are not there, then you must look for them," said Lyle. "Engage the enemy only if you must: it is best not draw attention to yourselves. Simply find Harry Potter and bring him here safely. Then we can talk about getting him to Hogwarts. That is all."

Sirius and Remus stood up, and Lyle nodded to them. "I wish you luck, Captains. The Godland keep you."

Sirius gave him a curt nod, then turned and strode out the door. Remus took a deep breath, gave a formal salute, and quickly followed him.

"I don't believe this," seethed Sirius as they hurried down the hall. "I can't believe they actually kept this from me."

"You don't think Lyle and Dumbledore had good reason to?" Remus asked.

Sirius stopped and whirled to face him. "I think I should've had a say on this matter from the very start! Why didn't Dumbledore consult me? Why didn't _Harry_ consult me!"

"Harry may have wanted to, you know," Remus reflected. "But it's likely Dumbledore had forbidden it."

"Why would he do that? I could have helped! I mean, _we_ could have been his bodyguards!"

"Oh yes," Remus replied, grinning. "Us. Bodyguards. A werewolf and a notorious criminal. Perhaps you and I ought to wear target circles on our backs while we're prancing about the countryside."

He didn't quite make Sirius laugh, but the joke merited a grim smile at least. "All right, fine," said Sirius, "but I don't like it that all this happened behind my back, and I like it less that they bring me in only after the damage's been done. _Someone_ owes me an apology!" He turned to go.

"Perhaps," said Remus, "but at least consider that this is just as hard on everyone else as it is on you."

Sirius turned back. "I'm not getting you."

"You will if you take a minute to think about the implications."

"I don't have a minute! What implications?"

"While we're going on this mission there will be a gap in the defenses. Lyle will have to send someone else to the front to cover for us. And since we're short on men, he'd have to send people from home base. He'd have to send—"

Remus fell silent, his eyes flicking to somewhere over Sirius's shoulder. Sirius turned, and saw Melvincent Galino walking down the other side of the hall. The elder gentleman did not bother to look at them, nor did he seem to have the least bit interest in what they were talking about. He kept his leisurely pace until he reached the door of the meeting room where Lyle was, and vanished behind it.

Sirius and Remus exchanged a grim look.

"Fine," Sirius said. "So be it. I don't care. I just want to find Harry." He turned and continued down the hall. "We'll load up on supplies and get to Hillsdale as soon as possible."

"Hey," someone piped up. "Did you say _Hillsdale_?"

Sirius and Remus turned to the speaker, who had just emerged from an antechamber. The lad resembled Lyle, but his face was more open and his eyes reflected young man's curiosity.

"It's Covenant, isn't it?" Sirius said. "Yes, that's what I said. What about it?"

"You know, I'd just come from there," said Covenant. "I was sent on a medical mission—which turned out to be very much an emergency, let me tell you. But wait...are you two going on a mission there yourselves?"

Remus glanced at his partner. By the look of his eyes, an idea was growing in Sirius's mind. "Yes, we are."

"Well," said Covenant, getting excited, "I'm not doing anything at the moment—Lyle wants to keep me here as a house Medi-Wizard. Do you need healer on your side? If it's not too much trouble—"

"Trouble? No trouble at all!" Sirius grabbed his hand and pumped it vigorously. "Actually, we won't need a healer as much as we need a guide. Did you happen to meet Mad-Eye while you were in Hillsdale?"

"I did!" Covenant said. "In fact, the person he was protecting was my mission objective!"

"Sirius," Remus interrupted, "I don't think..."

"Quiet, you. That's perfect, Covenant! Absolutely perfect! Can you guide us through town, then? Take us to where you last saw them?"

"Sure I can! But they must've left the Everglade Inn by now—"

Remus grabbed Sirius's arm. "Excuse me a moment," he said to Covenant, and dragged Sirius a few steps away.

"What are you doing?" demanded Sirius.

"What are YOU doing?" Remus retorted. "This is Lyle's little brother we're talking about! You can't seriously consider taking him with us without informing the Commander!"

"Why not? Lyle did order us to 'take whatever else we need,' right?"

"Yes, but—"

"And we _do_ need a guide, don't we?"

"Correct, but—"

"And since Covenant has been to Hillsdale recently, he is _the _most reliable guide we have now, correct?"

"Right, but—"

"I'm glad you agree with me, Captain. We'll be airborne within the hour, so get ready." He walked resolutely back to the young man and started explaining the mission details.

Remus heaved a defeated sigh. "There are times," he said to himself, "when I greatly miss the nice quiet life of a penniless werewolf."

* * *

Gallowbraid was displeased. He did not like what was currently happening. Or rather, what was clearly _not_ happening.

First, he was not getting his long-awaited confrontation with Alastor Moody. Until now he didn't have a clue where the old Auror was. According to Fudge, Moody had retired from public service several years ago. It was suspected he had rejoined his old colleague Dumbledore for active duty in the Order of the Phoenix, but his whereabouts were unknown. This is no fun, thought Gallowbraid. Surely he had not forgotten about his old rival? Surely he would leave himself available to settle some old scores?

Second, the men he had sent to Hillsdale to investigate, well, whatever there was to investigate, were two hours overdue. Now he had to account for them. Fuming over the ineptitude of these Death Eaters, he obtained a map and a Apparation Pass fromMinister Fudge and transported himself to Hillsdale to look for them. Inept or not, they were his subordinates, and with all the work of manipulating key officials in the Ministry, he needed every man he could get.If they had no excuse for this delay, he would literally show them hell.

It was mid-afternoon when he arrived at the town's deserted, leaf-strewn main street, and a good hour before he discovered the whereabouts of the Everglade Inn. To his surprise, he found the establishment surrounded by a platoon of Death Eaters.

When they saw him approach, those on watch at the entrance suddenly snapped to attention. Though their faces were masked, the unmistakable look of fear in their eyes showed that they already knew of him.

"G-glory to the Dark Lord!" one of them shouted, as if to remind the visitor they were on the same side.

"That's it, fool," Gallowbraid hissed, "shout it outand let everyone know whose handiwork this is."

The man blustered, lowering his eyes.

"Who ordered you to come here?" demanded Gallowbraid.

"The command came directly from Lord Voldemort, sir," replied the other guard. "He told the Captain to go and check on the progress of your investigation…"

_Not good._ Gallowbraid bristled at the thought. He was being _interfered with_. "And what has happened here?"

The guard lowered his head, reluctant to be the bearer of bad news. "We…we're not sure, sir. We found some of our men injured and bound. Some kind of fight—"

"Who is your captain?"

"Er, Captain Magnus Aragon, sir. He's upstairs right now, investigating the area."

Gallowbraid swept past him and entered the common room. He heard one of the men behind him breathe a sigh of relief.

The area was littered with broken glass and overturned chairs. A side door hung off its hinges, giving him a view of a kitchen floor strewn with vegetable peelings and broken eggs. Upstairs, on his way down the hall, he caught sight of the four men he sent. They sat together on the bed in a nearby room, covered from top to bottom with bruises and bandages. Officers were questioning them, but the blank looks of their eyes told Gallowbraid that their memories had been wiped clean.

He found Magnus Aragon in the fourth room from the staircase. The captain had three junior officers with him. One was examining the unkempt bed, another the blast marks on the walls, and the last was jotting notes rapidly on a nearby table. Captain Aragon himself stood at the other side of the room, his huge silhouette framed by the window. He was examining something in his palm.

The junior officers lifted their heads as Gallowbraid entered the room. Magnus did not bother. He held the object—a discarded bandage—to his nose, and briefly sniffed it. "Agrias's Balm," he said, "used mainly to treat infections caused by contact with undead creatures."

"Should we send a team to investigate the local cemetery, sir?" asked his junior officer.

"No need," said Magnus. "We've not time to waste. Once we're done here we shall pull out at once before the Order can—"

"I thought the Onyx Wing was the watchdog of the Dark Lord's home," interrupted Gallowbraid. "You must have a remarkably long leash to be nosing about a long way from your Isle."

"The Dark Lord commands his men as he pleases, to perform whatever tasks he sees fit," Magnus replied without turning to face him. "If he finds some servants more capable than others, will he not favor the betters with the important tasks?"

"What are you doing here, Captain? What does the Dark Lord want?"

Magnus nodded to his subordinates. "Leave us. Command the men to assemble outside." The three men vacated swiftly.

"At first, I was sent here to ensure that you do your job," said Magnus, "Lord Voldemort felt the Order of the Phoenix was planning something here. The Dark Lord's intuition has oft proven sharper than the minds of his underlings, and it seems now is no exception." He turned at last, looking Gallowbraid squarely in the eye. "You have failed in your task. Your men had stumbled upon something important, but they were swiftly defeated by no more than three men. I fail to see wisdom in sending only four scouts—men with no significant experience in reconnaissance, to boot—on a mission that had been clearly deemed significant by your superiors. Your carelessness and inept planning has allowed your quarry to escape."

"Is that what you think?" Gallowbraid asked, smirking. "This debacle speaks less of my planning and more of the Death Eaters's skill—or lack of it. If they had failed to capture three simple individuals, their stupidity is to blame. I find myself wondering about the effectiveness of your so-called training program."

"The failure of those four men is plain enough," Magnus returned, eyes narrowing, "andappropriate punishments should be meted out, as they must. But the final responsibility falls on their acting commander. This failure is on your head."

Gallowbraid gave him a cool stare. "I have not failed yet," he said. "If there truly were agents of the Phoenix involved here, as your lord puts it, they will not get far with the Black Barrier up. I will catch them myself, if I must."

"No doubt," replied Magnus. He slipped the discarded bandage into his pocket and gathered up his notes. "You understand, however, that the Dark Lord brooks no incompetence, and hardly doles out second chances to fools. No. At his behest, I am to take over this operation."

"_You_," Gallowbraid spat out. "Voldemort thinks a runt like you can replace me?"

"Lord Voldemort thinks more than that. If I were you, I would thank the fates on my hands and knees that His Lordship chooses not to stay here on the mainland, else your punishment would have been both harsh and swift." The meanest hint of a smile appeared on the corner of Magnus's mouth. "Fear not. It is merely delayed, not forgotten. Your reckoning will come later. It would be amusing to watch you so humbled, old man."

Gallowbraid's patience finally snapped. With a snarl he lowered his glasses. Damn the Dark Lord; he would fill this man's head with nightmares until he was gibbering on the floor!

But before he could focus his will, before the Evil Eye could begin the work of breaking his victim's mind, his entire surroundings vanished into darkness.

Gallowbraid blinked in surprise. Magnus called out to him in the gloom, his voice seeming to echo from all around: "I had wondered about you, Gallowbraid, since we first met on Onyx Isle. How could a man cast magic without a wand, and with both hands behind his back? What manner of Grand Wizardry did he possess?

"Later I found out about your Jagan. Yes, your feared Evil Eye. I realized it: that time, you did NOT have your hands behind your back. You were holding a wand like any normal wizard. Only you made everyone think you were unarmed. What they had been looking at was an illusion of yourself, a perfect simulacrum, while your real self stood a safe distance away.

"You manipulate people's minds with illusions, Gallowbraid. They are quite potent, I'll grant you that. If I had faced you that day, you would have slaughtered me with ease. But this time I am prepared. Prior to arrival I had set an event-triggered spell system in this very room, designed to cast a simple thirty-second Darkness should you attempt to use your Jagan. Well, wizard? Your loud breathing tells me where to strike. Can you work your illusions if you cannot see your victim's eyes?"

Gallowbraid gritted his teeth. But he stayed very, very still.

"As I thought," said Magnus, satisfaction in his voice. "I believe I've made my point. Don't worry; I'll let you live. Lord Voldemort has use for you yet, and I shall respect his wishes. But do not threaten me or my men—ever. Else I will find it worth risking my lord's wrath just to see your body lying cold on the ground.

"Till next we meet, old man."

When the darkness lifted, Magnus was gone.

Gallowbraid pushed his glasses back up his nose and remained where he was. It took a long minute to will his rage to pass. 'Not yet,' he thought. 'Later, soon, sooner than he thinks. I'll see him dead for this, dead or worse. Defeated. Broken. I swear it.'

He stormed out the room, but came to a halt in the hallway. The four injured Death Eaters under his command were standing there, waiting for someone—anyone—to tell them what to do. They blanched when they saw him, fear twisting on their faces. But Gallowbraid regarded them thoughtfully for a long moment.

"S-sir," the leader said at last, "I...I'm sorry, we don't recall…we've been told we've failed, but I don't know what went wrong."

"No," said Gallowbraid softly, "of course you don't."

"They said we'd been Memory Charmed…"

"Yes, indeed you have."

The man fidgeted a bit, then went on. "Sir, m-my lord, please forgive us…we know we failed you. If you can but give us another chance..."

"I suppose I can."

"My lord?"

"You _can_ aid me yet." Gallowbraid took step towards him, watching him intently through his glasses.

The leader brightened up. "Command us, sir! We'll give it our best, I swear it!"

"Oh, you will. I'm sure you will." Gallowbraid's face was stony and cold. "I simply require some information. Specifically, the face of the one who attacked you."

"W-what? But sir, like I said, our memories had been wiped! I can't recall—"

He fell silent as Gallowbraid stood an arm's length away before him. "Your mind doesn't recall, but your body is smarter than you know. _Corpus Memoriam_. You have seen his face, and that image has been burned somewhere in your eyes. I want to see it." He lowered his glasses. "I just need to borrow your eyes for a bit—you don't mind, do you?"

A gasp of horror went up as his men beheld the sick silver-yellow of the Jagan. Gallowbraid grasped the leader's shoulders. The man was too terrified to break his grip; his mouth dropped open, ready to scream. The pupil of the Evil Eye gaped in reply, like adoorinto the void.

And Gallowbraid's will pierced his victim's eyes, ripping out the images they had seen in the last few hours. The world around him roiled and swam as the pictures flew across his vision. He did not know if the process was painful for his subject. Given the way he shook and screamed, it probably was.

He quickly found what he was looking for. A door that had burst open, revealing a man with a long coat and a great bulging eye. The familiar, gnarled face of an old, old enemy.

Gallowbraid grinned. _Ah, life's little coincidences._

He released the man from his grasp. He was barely aware of his victim's low whimper, and of the pool of rank liquid at his feet. He had more important things to think about now. Oh yes. Moody had been here. Moody was but a few hours away from him, probably heading for the nearest place of safety. Where would that be? Ah, details, details. With a captured member of the Order in their hands, he would find out soon enough. He would not be able to harm Captain Aragon, at least not yet, but he could steal his victory. And at the same time, take his revenge on Alastor Moody. What a thrill, this old game of cat-and-mouse. What fun!

He walked past the frozen forms of his men. Their leader still stood there, weeping softly to himself. It was the only thing his eyes were good for now.

The Jagan had struck him blind.

_To be continued_

_Author's notes:_

_1. This chapter was supposed to be called "The Serpent by the Footpath." Well, I changed my mind. NEXT chapter will be "The Serpent by the Footpath," which methinks is more apt._

_2. The name Summershield keeps cropping up in a lot of my stories. I heard that name on CNN once, when a Dr. Summershield was being interviewed—I think she was some sort of plastic surgeon. Her name was more interesting than her profession, so I kept it._

_3. Lyle Bishop didn't start out as being blind. In my first draft I had actually made him a dashing young blond hero who knew exactly what to say at exactly the right moment, and whom Dumbledore was grooming to be his replacement. Ugh, right? So I let the chapter sit for awhile until I could make him more interesting. Then I recalled the character Zatoichi, the blind swordsman (and masseur) of samurai films. A little voice in my heart cried, YES! and there you have it._

_4. Sometimes when I'm stuck I try writing a draft of the scene on yellow pad before transferring it to my computer. Somehow a piece of yellow paper seems less threatening than a blank Word document—I can doodle and chicken-scratch all I want and none would know. This chapter happens to be one of those "chicken-scratch" works._

_5. To inspire me to write, I am watching episodes of the anime "Witch Hunter Robin," which I'm collecting. I LOVE ROBIN!_

_Chapter XV: The Serpent by the Footpath (it really is this time!)_

"_By the way…Gallowbraid gives his regards."_


	15. The Serpent by the Footpath

**The Phoenix and the Serpent **

_The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission._

**Chapter XV: The Serpent by the Footpath**

"Do you all understand what is required of you?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you are prepared to carry it out?"

"We are."

Cloth rustled as he stepped forward. "And will you fail me?"

The robed men bowed their heads as one. "No, sir."

"Good. Beware the Auror. He is cunning and watchful. If you stray from my plan, I assure you he will make you regret it. No matter what happens, I want him brought back to me. I want him alive—am I clear?"

"Y-yes, sir."

"Very well. Now go, and keep in mind what it means to promise victory."

* * *

Blinking away rain from his eyes, Harry stared up at the cold gray sky and wondered if he was ever going to make it home. It was as if nature itself was conspiring against them. The sky was thick from end to end with stratus clouds--an unbroken, endless procession that left no trace of where the sun might be. Coupled with the Black Barrier, the sky leached the world of color, turning the surrounding countryside into a miserable portrait of mist and mud. The air was perennially heavy with the scent of rain, but it hardly ever fell. Oh no, that would have been too simple. In the morning, the sky would scowl and threaten and rumble. By noon, however, only a slight drizzle would be pitter-pattering on the leaves and grass, coming and going as the hours slid by. This would continue until the close of day, when the sky would suddenly spit out a cold shower that would send them scampering for shelter. The downpour would last perhaps only ten minutes, but by then Harry always felt like he had waded through a river. It had been like this for the past three days since they left Hillsdale, and now, despite the Waterproofing Charm he'd been casting on his clothes, he had finally succumbed to a cold. 

What made it twice as bad was the endless walking, or what passed for walking in his case. The Corpulus disease had yet to completely fade from his body, and his limbs still felt like someone had tied sandbags to his legs. Moody and Danny had to take turns taking his shoulder and half-supported, half-dragged him along on their twenty-something-mile trek to Dunwick. Harry hated every minute of it. A journey that could have been done in a day was taking them thrice as long, and _he _was the one slowing them down.

To add to that, they had to keep rest periods to a bare minimum. They'd slept maybe six hours in all (there was no way to tell; the moisture had killed Harry's watch). They had no idea if the Dark Army was on their tail, but Moody said they had to take this as a given. "They know we've been up to something back there," he said, "and they'd want to know what it is. They'll try and catch us if they can, so we'd better keep on our feet as much as possible."

The rain continued to fall. A breeze wafted by, and Harry felt his skin tightening against the cold. Beside him, Danny suppressed a sneeze, and a few steps ahead Moody tilted his hat against the slanting drizzle. Harry turned his weary gaze to the path before them. It was not a much of a path, really, just a slightly beaten track through the grass. Moody had insisted on avoiding all Muggle roads and thoroughfares, saying it was much too open to be safe. He directed them instead through thick patches of trees, through streams, hills and ravines. Sometimes, he would stop, scanning the area before him and straining to hear a sound, before signaling them to move on.

Danny protested against all this, saying he was turning twenty miles into a hundred. Moody would not hear of it. "Better this way," he said, "now that the enemy knows we're here. They could be setting traps on our way even as we speak!"

"Only in your head, you old goat," Danny muttered.

Harry was exhausted. More, he was emotionally wrung out. He hated feeling helpless. He hated this English weather. He hated the cold, squishy feeling of his wet socks. He hated the sod that clung to his shoes and the grass that stuck to his robes. He hated the thought that they were being hunted like animals. He hated being in this strange land, wearing a stranger's face. And now that he got to think about it, he was beginning to hate even the company of these two men.

Neither of them, not the gruff old Auror nor his uncouth godson, had spoken more than a dozen words to each other since they agreed to resume the journey. There was not even one breath of reconciliation. They hadn't even bothered to apologize for all this—Harry didn't know how or why all this happened, but neither of them was making it any better. Their troubles had made Harry's temper extremely short indeed; if anyone had said so much as a biting word leading into an argument, he thought he might just do a bit of shouting himself.

Presently they came to the edge of a ravine, and here Moody called for a halt. He stepped forward and peered over the edge, an action that reminded Harry of an old grizzly poised to fish from a river.

Danny helped Harry to a large stone and sat himself down on a nearby tree stump, his legs splayed out before him. "I don't know about you," he puffed, "but there aren't enough Galleons in Gringott's to make me want to pull another one of these trips."

Harry ignored him. He watched Moody, who was still quietly observing the gorge. "This place…" began the old man, his voice oddly subdued.

"Are we finally there?" asked Harry. His aching feet felt too big for his shoes, and he wanted nothing more than to dip them in a bowl of steaming hot water.

"No," came the reply, "but we're close."

"Whatever you say," said Danny. He was lightly pumping his fists on his thighs to massage them. "We'll just get around that gorge then, no problem."

Moody did not seem to hear him. With his back turned to them, he gazed down into the ravine. Curious, Harry shuffled over and looked over the edge himself. The grass ended two feet from the crevice into the yellow sandstone. It was perhaps thirty yards deep, but he could faintly see the bottom even under the dim noon light. The ragged walls of the ravine were sheer and seemingly without handholds. Looking left to right, the ravine ran some twenty feet before twisting away into the surrounding trees.

The Auror raised his arm and gently pushed him back.

"Mr. Moody?" asked Harry, surprised.

"We're not going around it," he said. "Takes too much time. We're going over it."

Danny gaped, as if his godfather told him to swan dive into the crevice. "You're bonkers, old man."

"We're going over this cliff to save ourselves some time and effort—maybe two hours of travel in exchange for fifteen minutes."

"Has it ever occurred to you," Danny said through gritted teeth, "that since we haven't been attacked in the past three days, it's likely we're not being followed?"

"That's exactly the kind of thinking that's going to get us killed."

Harry felt the air souring. The last thing he wanted right now was another argument breaking out. "It doesn't look too deep," he said as calmly as he could. "I think we'll manage if we use Levitation Charms." Danny made a face at him, and Harry belatedly remembered his bodyguard's aversion for heights. Tough, he thought.

"The Levitation Charm won't cut it," replied Moody. "Maximum spell range is ten yards, and the crevice's something like twenty. No, we're using something else."

Moody took out his trunk from his inside pocket and let it land full-sized on the grass. From within he retrieved a coil of rope, a few tiny pieces of cork, and a large crossbow. Harry and Danny watched as the Auror attached one end of the rope to a bolt with a serrated head, then dropped the rest of the coil at his feet. He loaded the crossbow, turned the crank a few times to ready it, and fired. The bolt sailed clear across the gorge and struck the trunk of a tree with an audible _THUNK._

Moody tested the rope by giving it a few strong yanks. Satisfied, he proceeded to tie the rope around the trunk of a nearby tree.

"That's never going to hold the weight of any one person," groused Danny, "especially yours."

Moody fixed him a glare as he finished with a knot. "This rope's just our guide. Our _real_ means of getting across will be this." He lurched over to his trunk and gave it two swift kicks on the side. Instantly, the trunk started to hover some inches over the grass.

"Where on earth did you get that thing, anyway?" muttered Danny.

"Dumb thing only floats up or down, though," said Moody. "I'll pull the trunk across using the rope. We'll ride in pairs, first the boy and me, then if I feel like it, I'll come back for you. All in fifteen minutes."

Harry shrugged. "If it'll get us across quickly, I'm all for it." He limped over to the trunk and carefully sat down on it.

"Wait," said Moody. "There's something more we have to do. We have to cover our ears before we go across." He held up the pieces of cork.

Harry narrowed his eyes. "What for?"

"Yeah, what for?" echoed Danny.

"No time for questions. It's just something you have to do. For safety."

"Will you listen to yourself?!" cried Danny. "You're asking me to go float over a cliff on a trunk with corks stuck up my ears, and you're saying it's for safety? Should I dance the polka while I'm at it?"

"There's a reason why we have to do this, right?" said Harry. "Then you'd better tell us what it is…"

Moody put his hands down. "There's no time, I'll explain when we get across—"

"…Or we can forget the whole thing and just walk around the damn gorge. I can't trust someone who keeps everything to himself."

"Damn straight," said Danny. "Come clean, Moody. What is it with this gorge? Why do we have to do all this just to get across?"

Moody sighed and seemed to debate the matter with himself. "All right, all right," he finally said, "But I'll keep this short since we don't have a lot of time." He motioned to the rock Harry had been sitting on. "That rock. Notice the strange shape at the base?"

Harry turned to the look. Near the bottom of the rock was a flat area he hadn't noticed before. A metal plaque, the words too faded to be readable, was attached to it.

"That rock is all that remains of an obelisk. A memorial, actually."

"For whom?" asked Harry.

"War heroes." Moody scratched his chin, his brows lowering over his eyes. "The inscription on the memorial went something like: 'On this site in the year 1916, the great Auror Nikodemus Grindelwald and his men fought and defeated the Deceiver, banishing him from this mortal plane. Godland keep those who perished for this noble cause.'"

_Grindelwald._ 'Why did that name sound familiar?' Harry wondered. But before he could ask, Danny cut in. "Who or what was this Deceiver fellow?"

"The Deceiver? No one can say for sure what he was. All we know is, though he looked like a man, he sure as hell didn't come from this world. Some Muggle scientist—or whatever you call them—summoned him here. Maybe the Muggle wanted to ask for power or knowledge or suchlike. The Deceiver didn't give him any of that. Instead, he stole the Muggle's sanity. Then he proceeded to wreak havoc over Britain."

"Sounds kinda familiar," said Danny.

"The Deceiver wielded terrible powers. Not only did he use great magic, he could look into your heart and tell you the one lie you would absolutely believe, that one terrible thought about yourself buried in the back of your head. And he would say it in such a way that it would force you off of your senses—you could be filled with rage and take it out on the world, or you would lose your mind, or you'd be filled with despair and lie down to wait for your doom. It always worked, because no matter what he told you, it was half-true. But it was truth used in the worst way, used to bring out the worst in you."

Harry's stared at the Auror with a kind of amazed horror. "He destroyed people…by telling them lies?"

Moody nodded. "Because he could change his shape at will, there was no one you could absolutely trust. Couldn't think of a better way to bring a country down, by destroying trust in all its citizens.

"The Deceiver would've succeeded if the Aurors hadn't made a timely stand against him. Many were killed or driven mad in the war against the Deceiver. In the end, Grindelwald took seven of his best men and challenged him, right on this spot. They fought, and that battle created the crevice you see here. "

"How'd he win?" Danny asked, his eyes glittering.

Moody glared him. "Do you really have to know that part? I'm trying to keep things short here."

"You're talking to a Duelist, of course I have to know!"

"While his men distracted the Deceiver, Grindelwald cast a spell that deprived himself of all sensory input. He became completely deaf, dumb and blind. All he had to guide him was his will to destroy his enemy. He stabbed the Deceiver with a silver dagger. He was victorious that day, but when he was finally able to see, he found all his men dead. They had sacrificed themselves to protect him."

Moody fell silent for a moment, as if to honor the deeds of those men.

Harry asked, "But…if the Deceiver was killed, why do we have to cover our ears when we cross this gorge?"

"Because I'm a superstitious dolt, that's why," Moody retorted. "I traveled here a couple of times on an Auror pilgrimage. Last time I was here, I swear I heard a voice in the wind. I didn't listen, but I could tell whatever it was saying was absolutely no good. The Deceiver was beaten all right, but he didn't come from this world, and folks not of this world don't necessarily die the way we do. I reckon some part of him got left behind in this reality when he died, left there at the bottom of this gorge. It's probably only a small part, feeble, but even a small mushroom can harm you if you eat it without first checking it out.

"Anyway, the Dunwick outpost's just a mile north of the other side. We can make it there in an hour if we get across quickly. If we take the necessary precautions, we'll be just fine. So what do you say?"

He eyed Harry as he asked this question. Harry thought it over as he looked across the crevice to the other side. It didn't look like much of a stretch from here. They could probably get there in under five minutes.

"So if we keep our ears covered, nothing's going to happen to us?" he asked.

Moody nodded. "It's possible nothing will happen if we keep them open either. But I want to be careful."

Danny was giving Harry a beseeching look.

"I saw that, boy," said Moody. "Let the ones with guts decide this."

That settled it. "All right," said Harry. "Let's do it."

"Good. Danny, stay here and keep your eyes open. First sign of trouble, tug on the rope. Got it?" Moody didn't wait for an answer as he got on the trunk in front of Harry.

"This is insane," muttered Danny, crossing his arms. Harry ignored him and followed Moody's example as the old man slipped the cork snugly into his ears. Moody sat astride the trunk in front of Harry and said something. Harry shook his head to show he couldn't hear. The rope shook as Moody fumbled for it, and they started inching forward. In a moment, they had passed over the lip of the ravine, into empty air.

Harry hugged the trunk with his legs and planted his hands on the lid. He tried not to pay attention at how loud his heart was beating. One glance below reminded him how long a fall it would be. It must have been a terrible battle to make something so huge, and so deep. He could imagine the fissures burned into the cliff walls by lethal magic, and the depth of the ravine carved out by terrible explosions.

Feeling dizzy, he tore his eyes away from the shadowy bottom and stared at Moody's back. The old man kept the line of rope over his shoulder, advancing one hand upon the other as he pulled the trunk towards the opposite side. Twice he glanced over to Harry, who simply nodded for him to go on.

The autumn wind blew around them, touching Harry's cheek with a cold wet hand. Harry shut his eyes to keep them from drying. When he opened them again, he was relieved to see that they were—good!—halfway across. The other side was covered by soft low grass, with large boulders on the right-hand side and a gently rising slope on the left. Another forest began some distance from the cliff edge, and even from where they were Harry could hear crickets chirping as if in welcome.

Harry made a mistake, right then. He gave another glance at the cliff walls, and let his eyes follow the cracks on its surface down to the deep. Was it his imagination, or did the gorge suddenly seem darker? A trick of the light, he thought, shaking his head. Two minutes ago he could glimpse the ravine floor—it couldn't have just vanished. But as he stared, the chasm seemed to open up even more. There seemed no limit to the depth he could fall.

He felt dizzy again, and clutched at the edges of the trunk. He shook his head to clear it. He heard a little _pop! _and instantly realized the cork had fallen out his left ear. Harry froze, reached up one hand to catch it, but it slipped from between his fingers. He did not turn to look at it; he could already imagine the little cork plummeting down into the depths of the ravine.

He felt panic clutch at his heart, but forced himself to calm down. 'It's all right,' he told himself. 'I'll just tune out for a while. Nothing's going to happen to me. Besides, we're more than halfway across. I'll be fine.'

The wind picked up again, and suddenly there was a voice in the air, whispering quietly in his ear.

"_No peace without revenge."_

Harry gasped, turning his head. He stared with wide eyes into the empty air. He couldn't have—it must've been a dream, a trick of the mind. He couldn't have heard that voice!

In another minute, they had cleared the gap. Harry unplugged his ear as Moody reached for solid ground with his foot and steadied the trunk. He removed the cork from both his ears and twisted around to face Harry. "You all right?"

Harry nodded out of habit. He felt numb from more than just the cold. He felt as if something inside of him had been frozen solid.

But Moody was looking over Harry's shoulder. His eyes widened. "DAMN IT!"

The Auror sprang off the trunk and stalked towards the cliff edge. Harry immediately reached for his wand and lunged for the grass. He expected something—some hideous man-thing, rising out of the deep to carry him away.

But there was no sign of a threat from either the ravine or the other side. Moody was staring at Danny, who was presently hurrying along the edge of the ravine.

"Where do you think you're going?!?" cried Moody.

Danny looked back and shouted, "Glad you made it across! I'm sprinting round thing! See you in 20!" And with that, he vanished into the trees.

"That stupid, cowardly git!" bellowed Moody, stomping his foot in helpless anger. "He's going to make us wait here for another twenty minutes!?! Right when we're so close?!"

Harry put down his wand and sat up. He felt too numb inside to care. The words he heard still echoed inside his head, and as he thought longer about it, he found doubt beginning to worm inside his heart. Was this but a small influence of the Deceiver? How could that Auror Grindelwald and his men withstand the full force of it?

That name, Grindelwald. Where had he heard it before?

And it came to him in a sudden jolt of memory.

"Mr. Moody?"

"Eh?" Moody turned, an eyebrow raised.

"That Auror you mentioned, the one who fought the Deceiver? He isn't…_the _Grindelwald, is he? As in the Dark Lord Grindelwald?"

Moody turned away from him and began retrieving the rope and arrow. Harry thought he wasn't going to get an answer, but finally the Auror said, "He was never called Dark Lord. He was called Deathspeaker, Mugglebane, Creedbreaker, False Father, but never Dark Lord. I suppose you've heard about him from history class?"

"Um, yes sir. Professor Dumbledore—"

"—Defeated him in single combat in the year 1945, effectively ending the War of the Last Dawn. But they never did mention where he came from or what he was before then, eh?" Moody opened his trunk to stow his equipment away.

"They never said he was an _Auror_."

"He was an Auror, all right," said Moody. He put his trunk away, sat down on one of the rocks and removed his hat. His lips cracked into a wry grin. "You sure you want to hear this story?"

Harry shrugged. "If you feel like telling it. We do have twenty minutes."

"Truth be told, I don't feel like telling it," Moody took out his pipe from his pocket and lit it. "But then, you might learn a little something, and that's always important."

He took a drag from his pipe, and began. "Nikodemus Grindelwald…he was one of the greatest Aurors, the last of the giants. If you think the Aurors are good now, you should've seen them seven decades back. Never was a finer group of men and women dedicated to law and order. Especially Grindelwald. He was a genius, a phenomenon. Men leaped to his command. Criminals and black wizards, they weren't just cowed by the mention of his name; they upped and _ran_.

"If you've never heard of him being an Auror, that's because after the war the remaining Aurors asked that that little fact not be included in the revised history textbooks. So they could save face, even just a little. Figured future generations wouldn't want to join an organization that once housed someone who advocated Muggle genocide. I didn't truck much with that, but then, I was only a pasty-faced youngster fresh out of the Academy."

"But I don't understand," said Harry. He had always perceived Aurors to be the ultimate good guys. "Why would Grindelwald…?"

"Why? I asked myself that same question many times when I was growing up. To the public, Grindelwald was an upright man. To the Aurors, he was a hero." Moody fell silent. He took one last puff on his pipe before throwing the contents away. "No one really knew why he changed sides, but we knew one thing. Some years after he defeated the Deceiver, Grindelwald returned to this place. He entered the ravine."

Harry's eyes widened. "What?"

"He did it of his own free will. Stayed in there for three days. When he emerged, he came up with a whole new Doctrine for himself. Formed a group that was loyal only to him—the Lantern Bearers. Their mission was simple: reduce the Muggle population and remove them from all positions of power, in order to usher in a new Golden Age for wizards. The Council of Aurors didn't approve, of course. And so the War of the Last Dawn began."

"But…why did Grindelwald come back here? What did he do in that ravine?"

"If we knew the answers, we'd have solved one of the greatest mysteries of the wizarding world."

Moody tucked his pipe back into his pocket. For the first time, Harry saw a look of sorrow on his face. "I asked myself those questions too. But the _what_ is not important; the _why _is. So I thought, what if Grindelwald didn't adequately protect himself from the Deceiver, after all? What if that devil did get to him? Maybe told him the one lie he would absolutely believe? Maybe the Deceiver told him, 'Muggles are to blame for all the ills of the wizarding world,' or something like that. Or maybe, that dark side was in him all along, and he just needed some trigger to let it loose. For whatever reason, Grindelwald chose to hold that as his truth. It was his choice. A lot of people got killed for his choice, Grindelwald included. Dumbledore cornered him on the Rock of Gibraltar in the last days of the war and killed him."

Again he fell silent, and the only sound in the air was the call of the crickets. Harry waited for him to continue, but the old man stood up and put on his hat.

"And so a legend came to an end. I thought about him many times over the years, lad. Thought long and hard, and in the end I took this lesson—good men must be vigilant not just over their enemies, Harry, but also over their own hearts. Because when the hearts of the high-minded stray, they've got a terrible long way to fall. Did I answer your question?"

Harry nodded, at a loss for words.

"Mind if I ask you something now?"

"What is it?"

"What did you hear when we were crossing the gorge?"

Harry stared at him, dumbstruck. "H-how…?"

"I turned my eye on you right before we made it across. One of your earplugs was missing, and you had this look on your face, like you'd lived through a war or something. So, what did you hear?"

Harry said nothing, watched as Moody waited for him to speak. What could he possibly say? That the voice urged him to seek revenge? Was that what was in his heart? He opened his mouth, a denial on his lips. He was about to say that what he'd heard—if he _had _heard it—didn't matter. It had no influence over him, he was still master of his own will.

His intent died when Moody raised his hand in alarm. Harry stared, but the old man was ignoring him now. His magical eye spun in a slow circle at their surroundings, stopping to gaze at the forest edge.

"What's the matter?" Harry whispered. The air had changed somehow, and it took him a moment to realize what it was.

The crickets had stopped singing.

Moody drew his wand, his eyes still on the forest. "Someone's coming," he whispered, "and it's not Danny."

Harry did not know how he got to his feet on his own power, but he did. He had also taken out his wand, but Moody grabbed his shoulder and steered him to a nearby log. They lay prone behind it.

The Auror propped himself up on one elbow, staring at the direction of the forest. "No matter what happens, you stay behind this log and keep your head down. Got it?"

"What do you see?" Harry whispered.

"Four men, headed this way. Three are in Death Eater garb. They're chasing one man who's wounded and limping. He…looks familiar." He frowned. "Yeah, he's one of us. Winterwake, from the outpost."

Harry felt the crush of despair even before he fully understood the implication. "Does that mean the outpost in Dunwick's…?"

Moody's gaze did not turn from the forest. "That's something we'll have to ask him." He raised his wand and stood up. "Stay here."

Harry peered over the log as Moody lurched towards the forest edge. He halted halfway there and, with a wave of his wand, conjured up an illusion of a boulder. He ducked a little and vanished into it.

Gritting his teeth against the silence, Harry waited for the inevitable confrontation.

* * *

Moody crouched low into his illusion, feeling about as safe as a snail in its shell. Their situation was precarious; fleeing was probably the better choice, but there was something more to this. He knew the wounded boy: Jared Winterwake, son of Haley Winterwake. Haley was an Auror who had served under Moody many times before his retirement, and though they weren't close they'd survived many battles together. Haley died a few days ago in Southampton, defending the city to the last minute along with the rest of their old comrades. Of all things, Moody regretted not being there to stand with them.

And here now was Haley's only boy, wounded and unarmed, running for his life. Moody owed it to his friend to save his son, and no way in hell was he going to fail.

Moody primed his wand before him and waited for the chance to attack. His magical eyesight, easily penetrating the dense foliage before him, watched as the pursuers searched out their quarry among the trees. Three Death Eaters. Easy pickings, especially if he had the drop on them. The question was, with young Jared on the run, did this mean that Dunwick had been taken?

The bushes before him rustled as Jared stumbled into the clearing, surprising a flock of birds into the flight. Too noisy. The Death Eaters heard it immediately, started running for the source of the sound. Jared looked too dazed to care. Cradling his bleeding head, he padded straight towards the cliff's edge.

Just as he passed the illusionary rock, Moody leaped up, clamped one hand around the boy's mouth, and dragged him down into safety.

"Quiet, laddie," Moody whispered, "'lest you bring those blackhearts on top of us."

The boy's terrified eyes rolled up to his captor's face, then instantly flashed with recognition.

"Yeah, it's me alright," said Moody. "No need to shout it out though. What happened? Where's the rest of you?"

He loosened his grip on the boy's mouth, and Jared began to sob. More out of shock or relief, Moody could not tell. "Dunwick's lost," he whimpered. "They came out of nowhere. Had those beasts—dozens of 'em. Outnumbered us. Some hadn't even start running before they got cut down..." His words sank into blubbering.

Moody gave the boy a hard stare. The Order, defeated again. It couldn't have been a coincidence: the enemy had been anticipating their arrival. But how could they have known they were coming to Dunwick? _How?_

Jared went rigid with fear as more rustling came from directly in front of them. No time to think. Moody released his grip on the boy.

"Be still," Moody muttered. "Lie down and keep quiet. Grief's for later, boy. Now we do battle." The Auror raised his wand and faced the forest.

The first Death Eater left the cover of the woods, leading the way with the point of his wand. "I heard him go through here," he said. "I swear it."

"I say you're mistaken!" grumbled the second Death Eater, brushing the twigs form his black robe. "He's still following that trail, he is. We're losing him just by standing here!"

The third man emerged as well, saying, "He could've ducked among those rocks to throw us off. Well worth checking them out before carrying on."

As one they approached the cliff edge. Moody's jaw tightened as the men came within ten feet of them, with absolutely no idea they were right there. Close quarters combat. He grinned—he rarely felt this excited. Blood was singing in his ears.

"We shouldn't go there," said the second man. "He might be setting a trap for us."

"Don't be stupid," said the first Death Eater, stepping forward, "the man's half-blind from blood loss. He couldn't swat a fly."

Just as he bent to peer around what he thought was a real rock, Moody attacked. Grabbing the man's wand with his left hand, he yanked him close and pulled his arm into a lock. Using the Death Eater as a human shield, he fired at the second man. Still in shock, his target had no defense. He fell without a single cry.

Their third companion proved more alert. He raised his wand and loosed a bolt of green energy at Moody. The Auror simply shoved his prisoner in the way. The first man screamed as the curse caught him full on the chest. Moody let him go as he pitched headlong into the dirt.

The remaining Death Eater stared down at his handiwork, then looked up as Moody slowly advanced on him.

"If that was your best spell," growled Moody, "better throw down your wand right now. I bet you my right arm I can mindcast a Disarming Spell before you can even utter a syllable. You game?"

The man hesitated, then aimed his wand. In a half-second both were flying through the air, disappearing into the bushes near the woods.

"Wrong answer."

Moody dusted his robes in satisfaction. Three in fifteen seconds. Not bad. He would bind these men, and in a minute he could have all the information he wanted about the Dark Order's movements. Then he'd leave them dangling from the edge of the cliff for their comrades to pick up. What happens to them afterwards under Voldemort's hands, he'd rather not imagine.

The hairs on the back of neck prickled. He spun about, facing the cliff edge.

Jared had picked himself up and taken the wand from the fallen Death Eater's grip. He stared at Moody with wide, bloodshot eyes.

"It's okay, laddie," Moody said, relaxing. "It's over. No need to be afraid." He could only imagine what anguish this boy had gone through. Losing a parent, and now this. It was enough to drive any man mad.

Jared lifted the wand, pointed it straight at Moody. The Auror's eyes widened.

"Jared?"

"It was your fault," the boy whispered.

"Jared, put that down. I'm here to help, I'm here—"

"You weren't there for him. You weren't there for us. Now they're dead. All of them."

"Jared—!"

The wand flashed like a thunderbolt. Moody moved to dodge, but the boy had been too close. The bolt crashed through the old Auror's body—he did not know where, maybe everywhere. There was no pain, just a sudden embracing numbness as the world around him shattered—

_He was young again, standing on a golden beach, and beside him the man who would start him on his journey. Grindelwald's wizened hand took his shoulder as they watched the Aurors's longboats coming in from the sea. "I wonder, will you be one of them, Alastor?" the old man mused. "Will your spirit be equal to the task?"_

_He was in a room lit solely by candles. On an altar before him were pictures of Aurors he had known, whose bodies they had never recovered. At the fore was that of a young woman, a striking figure with lightning-white hair. Dumbledore stood before this picture. It was the first time Moody had seen the mighty wizard cry. "Will you help me?" Dumbledore asked, without turning around. "Would you stand with me against the Dark?"_

_He was flat on his back, eyes on the gunmetal sky. Pain screamed throughout his body. On his side, looking down with wide uncomprehending eyes, a little girl held a bloody switchblade before her like a sword. A man stepped forward, stood behind the girl. He smiled a big, wolf-like grin. "Surely you would not forget me, Alastor?" he said, lifting his dark glasses. "We have unfinished business, do we not?"_

—And as his consciousness began to succumb to the agony, Moody finally remembered. His old enemy had returned. And he had come to settle old scores.

* * *

Harry did not think. The moment he saw Moody fall, he suddenly found himself on his feet, wand in hand. He had no coherent plan in his head, only the thought of keeping that bloodied young man as far away from the Auror as possible. "Get away from him!" he shouted as he staggered forward.

He was able to walk five steps before tripping. Damn the disease! He gasped as the wind was knocked out of his lungs, then tried to get up on his elbows. Glancing before him, he saw that the young man hadn't moved. He still kept his wand pointed at Moody's unmoving form, as if he knew nothing else to do. The old man was breathing. Just barely, but still breathing.

Before Harry could push himself up, he heard a loud _POP! _from his left, and a boot came down on his neck, pressing him back to the earth. He cried out in pain and surprise.

"Don't try it," warned a gruff voice. "I've got orders to bring you in alive, but not undamaged. If the latter doesn't suit you, let me know by trying to get back up again."

Harry peeked up from the corner of his eye. The Death Eater was staring coolly down at him, wand primed for the back of his head. His captor bent down and relieved him of his wand.

"Easy pickings," spoke another Death Eater, walking into view. "Just like the boss said: best way to flush them out is by giving them someone to rescue. But using a Mesmerized Order agent as bait—that Gallowbraid's emotional control's unbelievable! I don't know whether to admire him or fear him."

A third Death Eater approached from the right. "Did we really get him?" he asked, awed. "Did we really get Mad-Eye Moody?"

"Sure did," guffawed the second Death Eater. "Just look at 'im. Flat on his back like a buggerlug bug. Some bloody living legend."

"Be quiet, both of you," said the leader. "Blackthorn, revive the others and look for the last guy, that tall one the boss described. Irian, kill the bait and secure the old man. Let's not get careless now."

The two Death Eaters left to do as they were told. The leader bent down and muttered to Harry, "You made us wait two days out here, looking for you. Don't bother about Dunwick—we destroyed it yesterday. I don't know who you are or why the boss wants you. All I know's me and my men will get richly rewarded for bringing the three of you in. Now, where's your other friend?"

"I don't know," Harry said through gritted teeth. If it wasn't for his disguise…

"No?" He felt the wand press hard against the back of neck. "_Where?_"

"I don't know! He left us hours ago! I didn't see where he went!"

There was a sound of rushing wind, the flash of green light somewhere beyond his vision. Harry's skin crawled in horror at the dull thud of a body falling onto the grass.

The leader sighed. "You're really making this hard for yourself. Threats are not really my thing but if that's how you like it…Irian, what are you doing?!"

Painfully, Harry rolled his eyes to the scene ahead of him. The fallen body of Winterwake lay close by. A few feet way, he saw the Death Eater Irian had removed his mask and was staring at Moody's prone form. Irian looked to be in his twenties, with long matted hair, wide glaring eyes, and a long scar at the side of his mouth. "Wake up, old man," he said, kicking the Auror's flank. "I know you can hear me. Open your eyes and look me in the face."

"Irian, stop playing around!" said the leader. "Bind him and help Blackthorn out! There's plenty of time to taunt him when we're back in the base."

Irian was not paying attention. He aimed his wand at Moody, and said, "_Crucio!_"

The next seconds were some of the most horrible in Harry's life. Moody's still form suddenly jerked and writhed on the ground. His true eye rolled up, the magical one spun like a top. Every vein on his forehead stood out. He didn't utter a sound, but his teeth clamped together in a death grin. And all the while, Irian kept his wand pointed at him, a look of crazed satisfaction in his eyes.

Shouts filled the air. There was the leader—"Irian! Irian, damn it, what's wrong with you?! Have you lost your mind?!" Harry belatedly realized he too was shouting—"Stop it! Stop it, leave him alone! You're killing him!"

The other Death Eaters, revived from unconsciousness, watched the scene before them in dazed confusion. Irian did stop, but only to bellow, "Remember me now, Auror? Of course not—I was only a boy then. But I remember _you_, and I'll never forget what you did to me. _Crucio!_"

Again Moody convulsed. His eyes shot wide open. Liquid leaked out of the side of his mouth, and a low _nggaaaaa_ rose from the back of his throat. He arched off the ground like a taut bow, and his hands clawed deeply into the earth, tearing out clumps of grass.

"_Damn you!_" screamed Harry. "_I said leave him alone! Bastard!"_

The leader yelled, "Blackthorn! Blackthorn, get off your ass and restrain him!" Said man leaped forward, grabbing Irian's arm. But the Death Eater shook Blackthorn off, maintaining the curse over Moody.

"Damn it!" The leader left Harry and rushed forward, tackling Irian to the ground. Released, Moody's body fell limply back to the earth. His pain-wracked face fell to the side, and Harry could see nothing in his eyes. The man was as empty as the void. Harry felt a shocking chill run through his soul.

"What the hell were you thinking?!" Clutching Irian's lapels, the leader dragged him to his feet. "You could've killed him! The boss specifically said—!

Irian shoved him away. "Out of my way, Cruniac! I don't care what that monster says! I'm taking my revenge on this piece of garbage right now! I waited 13 years for it!"

"What are you talking about?"

Irian pointed at Moody. "I lost my father because of him! He turned my Dad over to the Dementors after finding out he was with Lord Voldemort! The government confiscated our home! No one would help us! My family starved like dogs! I joined the Death Eaters so that when I found him, I'd have the power to kill him! And that's exactly what I'm doing!"

He started towards Moody, but Cruniac grabbed his arm. He pulled off his mask, revealing him to be just as young as his subordinate.

"Irian, shut your hole and use your head! If Moody dies, we have to answer to Gallowbraid! You think that bastard's going to let this slide? He'll kill us, man. Or worse!"

Irian glared at him, but he didn't pull away.

"I know you lost your family to the war," Cruniac went on. "But ask any man here and they'll all give you a name. We all want revenge on the Aurors as badly as you do. But, damn it, this isn't the time! We've got our orders! Remember what Magnus told us—the cause before the self, the corps before the self! If you kill him now, we _all _suffer!"

Harry was barely listening. His eyes were fixed on Moody, searching for any sign of life. The old man's chest still quivered, drawing one labored, shallow breath after another. But his face was slowly turning an ashen gray.

"Let Gallowbraid get first crack at him," the leader concluded. "I promise you, you'll have your chance later. For now, just think of the mission!"

Irian turned away from him, looked at Moody with hate-filled eyes. "You can wait, but I can't. This man robbed me of everything. I've suffered for 13 years—that ends today!"

He raised his wand, and before his comrade could react—

"_AVADA KEDAVRA!_"

Harry hadn't turned away. He found he could not. Not long ago, he had witnessed the death of an evil being. He would do the same for a good man.

The bright flash of green robbed him of his sight. Harry felt something inside of him surrender all hope of survival. He blinked, involuntary tears falling from his eyes. When he looked again, Moody was gone. In the curse's afterglow, his body had disintegrated into nothing.

Wait a minute, thought Harry. The Killing Curse doesn't do that.

A cry of alarm rose up among the Death Eaters. They were looking at something to Harry's left. Harry followed their gaze.

Moody's body was floating rapidly away from his tormentors. He rose to some five feet in the air, following the curve of the rise Harry had seen from across the ravine. At the top of the rise, a pair of lanky arms caught him, cradling him like a child.

Daniel set his godfather down on the ground as gently as he could. He gazed at Moody's darkening face, and Harry saw the pain in the boy's creased brows.

"You really did a number on him," Danny said calmly. He did not look at the Death Eaters as he loosened the straps of the guard on his left forearm. "He's a tough guy—I've seen him hurt many times and pick himself right back up. But I've never seen him at death's door.

"Even if you did lose family to the war, what gives you the right to deprive others of their own?"

He straightened up, and the armguard slipped onto the grass. The black wand twisted in his fingers in anticipation.

"If you want to avenge people's memories, don't take it out on the near-dead like a pack of starving jackals."

Daniel raised his left arm. A glow emanated from his hand as another wand, silvery, glowing, and transparent, seemingly grew out from the flesh of his palm.

"You want revenge, put your life on the line…"

The points of his wands blazed as he held them like swords. A crackle of electricity, and suddenly a white ribbon of lightning flashed between them. His scarf flew on a sudden blast of heated air. All traces of pain had fled from Daniel's face. The only thing left was the firestorm in his eyes.

"…AND FIGHT SOMEONE WHO CAN FIGHT BACK!!!"

_To be continued_

_Author's Notes:_

_1. It's been some seven months since the last chapter. I kept a lot of folks waiting, myself included, but there were some things on hand that just can't wait. I'm finally engaged. In a year's time, I'm gonna get married!_

_2. I've been thinking for the longest time of a good nemesis for Mad-Eye Moody, and though I had the name—Gallowbraid—I didn't know what made him particularly villainous. And then it hit me: his powers should be the exact opposite of Moody's. Therefore, if Moody's eye provides its owner the ability to perceive things, Gallowbraid's own eye had the power to obscure them, via illusions. I got that idea from Mido Ban of "Get Backers", and even shamelessly ripped off the name Jagan, or Evil Eye in Japanese. The idea of Mesmery, or the ability to control a person's emotions, came from the powers of the Mule, from Asimov's Foundation saga. Moody's own eye, on the other hand, would be the Wadjet, or the All-Seeing Eye of Egyptian mythology. Rowling did not specifically state that this eye can see through illusions, but I just thought it would make an interesting contrast. _

_3. I got the name Gallowbraid from a card in Magic: The Gathering. To those of you who know what I'm talking about, it's a 5/5 black creature that is just as intent at killing you as it is with killing your opponent. Which is kind of the same as the character I made for this story. And besides, the name's really cool._

_4. You may have noticed I put a lot of attention on Moody's character. I don't know, I have a soft spot for old folks, I guess._

_5. I just realized there's no place in this chapter fic where I used the excerpt I put at the end of the previous chapter. Maybe I should discontinue the practice. It's not really useful anyway. _

_Chapter XVI: "Battlecry" _

_January_


	16. Battlecry

**The Phoenix and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter XVI: Battlecry**

_  
Daniel raised his arms high over his head. The incandescent ribbon of lightning connecting his wands blazed in his eyes. He felt no fear, no hesitation. Only a bottomless rage and the self-same joy he found in every battle. _

_The Death Eaters below him were finally reacting, turning the business ends of their wands on him. Too little, too late, too bad. He flung down his arms as if he were hurling spears, and fingers of electricity lunged at the men before him. They instinctively dodged, but to their surprise the bolts flew over their heads, discharging on the trees behind them. Seizing his opening, Daniel leaped forward, sliding down the steep slope into the fray._

Slowly, careful not to tread on anything that may lead to a clue, Magnus picked his way up the slope of the ridge. To his right lay the edge to another dense forest, two miles south of Dunwick village. To his left lay the crevice his platoon had just circumvented. And all around him, the aftermath of a recent battle.

Magnus had known battles all his life. He was born in Ravenhome, the place where the wizarding society dumped its dregs. His family moved there at the end of the war, after his grandfather, a rabid supporter of Grindelwald, was banished from the protective circle of nobility. His mother used to tell him his birth alone was a fight for survival. "You're bred for a warrior's life," she said, "and a warrior's fate awaits you." It was the only prophecy she'd ever made, but it was accurate. His passage from boyhood to adulthood had been rife with struggle, from the day-to-day drudgery of getting enough to eat to the intermittent fight for the right to keep it. And whereas the rest of his family withered and died in Ravenhome, Magnus flourished. When he turned ten he became a thief. At fourteen, he became a murderer. His victim was a local hood who threatened to turn him in if he didn't pay a monthly tribute levied on local businessmen. Magnus's answer was a blast from an unregistered wand one dark night in a deserted alley. He ran for a month, until the Hit-Wizards captured him as he tried to get on a boat to France. Right then, Magnus learned that a life without strength was not worth living.

It was during the hearings at the Ministry that Lucius Malfoy, a distant uncle he'd never met, took an interest in him. Malfoy exerted his considerable influence to have the charges against the boy dropped. He took him under his wing, providing shelter, a job, and a tutor. Magnus had wondered about this generosity and what lay at the end of it. He found out some years later, when Malfoy recruited him as a Death Eater. And in Lord Voldermort's shadow, he found a measure of power, and the "warrior's fate" his mother had promised.

Yet while Magnus owed his life to his uncle for picking him up and educating him, he owed his soul to the streets, where learned his most valuable lesson: the strong live; fools die.

From what he was seeing, the fighting strength of his quarry was…notable.

_The Death Eaters had recovered quickly—they seemed better trained than most he'd met before. Daniel had not even reached halfway down the slope when they began flinging curses at him. But he was ready. Bands of white energy radiated, iris-like, from the tips of his wands. The twin Wandshields caught the first barrage with ease. A quick swing of his left shield batted one curse towards a tree. He switched it back front as he knocked another curse aside with his right. The curse struck a nearby rock, blasting a crater on its side. Daniel did not even slow down. _

_It was time to show these amateurs how he earned the nickname 'Caracal.'_

Magnus raised his eyes from the spot he had been examining and looked back. There at the bottom, some of his men were tending to their fallen comrades. They avoided the cliff itself, which he warned was cursed. The rest of them remained outside the perimeter, to facilitate his study of the grounds. He did not need to ask them to do this. They knew how he worked, and he had trained them well.

They had found five survivors from their side. Magnus had also trained these men. Singly, each one was a competent fighter. Together, they were a terrifying force. But he had found them knocked unconscious, magically bound, and sporting severe burns and broken bones. No fatal injuries, but he would not count them fortunate yet. Not until Lord Voldemort has had his say.

Among his men lay a corpse—dead from a Killing Curse, apparently. They had not yet ascertained his identity, and he did not bear the Dark Mark that meant he was one of theirs. A bait, perhaps, to lure out the enemy? He would have to ask Captain Cruniac when he finally came to.

Magnus returned his attention to the grass near his feet and traced the outline of footprint in the soft soil. The print carried a peculiar mark. The owner wore Darrolli soft shoes, the type favored in combat. Clearly, the man was a Duelist.

_Daniel knocked another curse aside as he neared the bottom of the slope, but another one came hurtling towards him: a ball of green fire that screamed through the air like a burning banshee. Still sliding, Daniel dropped to a crouch, left leg stretched before him, right leg bent and taking his weight. He brought one Wandshield up to protect his front and the other directly over his head. The fireball skipped over this Wandshield like a stone over water, exploding on the ground far behind him. He felt the spray of hot dirt on his back and ignored it. Finally skidding to the bottom, Daniel tensed his legs and leaped._

Magnus's sharp eyes caught each blast mark on the trees and surrounding ground. Nine curses, all deflected. He wondered how the Duelist had been able to defend so well against so many at once. It was impossible. No, not impossible, he corrected himself, merely improbable. It would take some kind of Grand Wizardry, some powerful protective spell...

Unless he used two wands. A Duelist and a Duomancer?

He turned his attention back to the ground near his feet. Then, eyes still on skid marks, he stood and made his way down the slope.

"He slid until here," he murmured, eyeing a spot on the grass. "Then he leaped over the line of rocks…landing there. While in the air, he cast the curse that took out Danno." Magnus glanced at the unconscious Death Eater lying near the bottom. "But why did he jump there? Why didn't he press the attack? With Danno and the rocks between him and the rest of his enemies, he was in a perfect defensive position…"

He leaped over the rocks, landing near the spot where the tracks began again. He bent on one knee to study the indentations on the grass, and smiled in understanding.

_Daniel vaulted over the row of stones, left knee close to his chest, right leg stretched behind him. He hardly had to look or think; his wands simply dropped the shields, pointed to the closest Death Eater, and fired a Disarming Spell. Twin bolts of red energy slammed into his opponent's chest and forehead, throwing him to the ground. Daniel landed on his side, curled into a roll and stopped on his knees before Harry. Instantly he raised his Wandshields again, even as another volley of curses came at them. He beat them aside, shouting, "Take cover behind that log! I can't fight and protect you at the same time!"_

His choice of action was revealing. No Duelist would abandon an advantage in a fight without good cause. His companion was obviously someone he was forced to protect. Perhaps someone important.

Magnus followed the tracks, mentally charting his adversary's steps around the battlefield. "After his companion had reached safety, he ran here, deflecting the curses towards Sutter, who, the given position he is lying in now, attempted to run—"

_Dodge, don't run from a curse, Daniel mentally admonished as the Death Eater collapsed, his arms and legs seizing up. Another Death Eater charged forward, wand glowing green. Daniel read him instantly: a Killing Curse at close range, so he couldn't dodge. The moment the Death Eater pointed his wand, Daniel took a half-step back and dove to the right. A green blaze exploded behind him, accompanied by a rushing wind. Daniel rolled to his feet— _

—and returned fire. Brogan went down."

Magnus did not take his eyes of the prints for a second. "His footwork indicates a wand technique. Moving quickly around his opponents, keeping them in curve of a semi-circle…the Crescent Moon style."

He stopped, staring at a mixture of tracks near the end. "He took down Blackthorn here..."

_This Death Eater showed some promise. He was casting curses in succession so quickly Daniel kept busy blocking with both his Wandshields. Daniel dropped his left shield, pushed his left wand through his right shield, and fired beneath the angle of his opponent's spells. The curse struck the Death Eater's unprotected belly and he double over in sudden agony..._

"The burn on along the grass…the angle was precise, and he moved without hesitation. He two steps forward, he finally turned fire at Captain Cruniac..."

_The leader of the Death Eaters was not going to run; Daniel saw this from the look in his eyes. He raised his two wands, and a ribbon of lightning connected them once more. His scarf billowed as a blast of heated air surged around him like a small tornado. Twin spheres of electricity emerged from Daniel's wands. The man's eyes widened as the sphere grew bigger and brighter, crackling with power._

"_Give up," said Daniel. "You're more useful to me awake on your feet than flat on your back."_

"_The hell you say!" cried his opponent. "I'll fight you till the end!"_ _He conjured a wide Wandshield, readying himself to counterattack._

_Daniel smiled. "You're a man after my own heart."_

"The shield could not take the stress of the spell," said Magnus, touching the singed grass surrounding the fallen captain. "Cruniac went down."

The rustling of robe from his left. "Captain Aragon?"

He looked up to see his subordinate standing beside him. "Lieutenant Vaughn. You have something to report?"

"Sir, look at this," said Vaughn, reaching something out to Magnus. It was badge bearing the insignia of the Ministry of Magic. "Each of the five were wearing these around their necks. What could it mean, sir?"

Magnus took it, retrieved his wand from his belt, and lightly tapped the badge. It glowed blue for an instant. "This is a pass issued by the Ministry," he answered. "It has a particular function. If you had to guess what that is, what would be your guess?"

"Well...I'd say it allows the bearer to Apparate within the confines of the Black Barrier."

"Correct, Lieutenant."

"But those badges are only given by the Law Enforcement branch to Hit-Wizards! How could these men...unless…they had been assigned to that foreigner, Andros Gallowbraid!"

Magnus nodded. Being in control of the Minister had allowed Gallowbraid access to enemy resources. He was not the least bit surprised of Gallowbraid's meddling. He knew the old man's spiteful nature all too well. But once again, Gallowbraid's plan had failed, probably because he relied too heavily on underlings. Another of his weaknesses.

Magnus pocketed the badge, as it may prove useful later. He was about to return to studying the tracks when a movement to his left caught his attention. His man tending to Cruniac was signaling to him.

"Sir! He's come to!"

At last, some answers. Leaving Vaughn to look for more clues, Magnus strode towards the captain's prone form. Cruniac lay flat on his back on the dry grass. The fingers of his left hand twitched, as if beckoning.

Magnus bent on one knee. "Captain Cruniac. What happened here?"

Cruniac tilted up his chin in an effort to be heard. "S-sir…forgive us…" he gasped, "Gallowbraid's orders…"

"I know, Captain. Rest assured, from now on you will take no orders from him."

The crease on Cruniac's brow eased as he heard this. "Thank you sir…Lord Voldemort's merciful…compared to that monster."

"You were after three men?" Magnus asked.

Cruniac nodded weakly. "We took down…the Auror, Alastor Moody…badly hurt…but we were surprised…third man."

"Who is the corpse?"

Cruniac shut his eyes, concentrating on his words. "Winterwake…agent of the Phoenix. Stationed in Dunwick… Gallowbraid knew about him…our captive…used Mesmery on him…"

More underhanded tricks, Magnus thought with disdain. The fool takes no pride on direct combat.

Cruniac's voice sank to muttering. He was starting to lose consciousness again. Magnus bent closer that to hear him whisper.

"Sir…six of us…Irian…"

Magnus's eyes narrowed. "Six? Irian was with you? Where is he? Captured?"

Cruniac did not respond. His head lolled and his eyes fluttered shut. Magnus straightened up, and noticed that the index finger of Cruniac's right hand stretched out towards the cliff.

Magnus reached the edge of the crevice in six long strides. There were tracks here he hadn't noticed yet—crushed grass, broken soil...the telltale signs of a struggle. He came to the edge and peered over.

The chasm yawned before him, and the slanted afternoon light made it difficult to see the bottom. But his eyes soon adjusted...and he was satisfied.

"Lieutenant Vaughn?" he called.

"Sir?"

"Gather the men. We'll follow the tracks into the woods. Put the injured on stretchers and carry them."

"What about the—"

"Leave the corpse. Better yet, booby-trap it. We'll know if we're being followed."

"Good idea, sir. We're on it."

Magnus nodded, never looking away from the gorge. There at the bottom, difficult to make out at first because of his black robe, lay Irian. His face was a tiny bloodied oval, staring mutely up into the light. Irian had been one of their early recruits, a driven man, eager to learn the Dark Arts. He had also been sullen and secretive, given to volcanic displays temper when goaded. It made him unsuitable for leadership.

But he was one of us, thought Magnus, and he will be avenged. The ones responsible for this had no hope of running or hiding, not with one of them injured and the other diseased. He would find them even if he had to part the grasses from their roots. For vengeance, and for the glory of his lord.

He turned to leave, as he did so, the wind sighed in his ear.

"_Your life is meaningless."_

Magnus halted. He turned his head, slowly, to look once more into the void.

"Is that it?" he whispered. "Is that the great lie of my heart? That is what is supposed to break me?"

He turned fully to face the gorge, as if he were meeting an enemy. "I know of you. My grandfather died for Grindelwald, the man you had once made your puppet. You fed on his dreams and ate his Auror heart till there was nothing left but hatred and madness. And in the years that followed, he caused my family nothing but grief.

"And now you wish to feast on my dreams, on my sanity? I will not permit it. I am my own master. And you are not even a specter, less than the meanest ghost. You do not have even the dream of power. Your lies mean nothing to me. You are nothing."

The wind gave no reply. But a moment later, Magnus heard a quiet shivering in the air, like the chuckling of a very old man. He paid it no heed, and turned about to follow his men into the forest.

* * *

"Well?" 

"They're finally on the move. Which means it's time we got moving too." Sirius squinted through his spyglass. "Damn it, looks like they're booby-trapping the body. Unfortunately we'll won't be able to do our own investigation."

"They know, don't they? About Harry?"

Sirius looked down at Remus from his vantage point on the tree. "What else would they be out here for, a picnic? My guess is that battle scene's the handiwork of Mad-Eye and Daniel Oaks. Looks like they got away, but with that Death Eater platoon behind them, they won't be safe for long. I intend to do something about that." He swung down from the tree branch to land beside Remus. "We'll shadow the Death Eaters from a distance of 50 yards. Then, once they've let their guard down, we'll take out the competition."

"Brilliant plan, sir," replied Remus, "assuming a) we manage to catch up once we get around this gorge, b) we can trail them without being detected and c) we don't run into any of their reinforcements along the way."

Sirius flashed a grin. "Honestly, Remus, when did you get so pessimistic? There's 20 of them and 35 of us. And if we come at them from behind, I don't think they'll have a snowball's chance in—"

Coven interrupted their conversation by popping his head out from the bush, one hand in a clumsy salute. "Our troops are ready to move out, sirs!" he called cheerily.

Remus cocked an eyebrow, and Sirius gave the boy a look. "If you want to stay alive," he hissed, "you'd do well to keep your voice down. And since when did we promote you to lieutenant?"

"Er, well…" Coven reddened, and his head reminded Remus of a very large cherry. "I just thought I'd be more useful in such a position, sir, than, being, you know, just the Medi-Wizard."

"Don't quit your day job," advised Remus. "Where Sirius goes, injuries are quick to follow."

"Forget that," grumbled Sirius. He turned and signaled to his men. "We're moving out!"

* * *

Hugging his knees to his chest, Harry leaned against the fallen tree trunk and watched as Danny tended to his godfather. The elder boy bent over Moody, one ear close to the Auror's mouth and a palm splayed over his chest feeling for his heartbeat. Sweat pasted his corn-colored hair to his forehead; his brow was creased in concentration as he listened. Moody still did not move. Harry could not tell if he was breathing, and his face was now a bluish hue, save for a frightening pale ring around his mouth. But Danny still hovered over him, whispering encouraging words. 

Exhausted as he was, Harry knew that Danny was more tired still. He had carried his godfather on his back throughout the mile long trek. He did not once stop to rest the whole long way, while Harry panted behind him, struggling to keep him in sight. Leaning on a stick he had picked up, he trailed Danny through the dense forest, slipping under fallen logs, past the slanting afternoon light, springing across boulders, and finally up a small hill to this little hollow surround by a ring of low trees. Here they finally stopped. Danny had all this time been moving with a deer-like wariness, watching their flanks for danger. It was only now that Harry realized that he had also been on the look out for a good campsite, and his instincts had led him right to this place. After setting Moody down he backtracked a little and removed traces of their passage with an Obliteration Charm. Remarkable work, if Harry had been inclined to judge it. He was, however, past caring.

He hugged himself tighter, as if to block out a chill. If he could, he would take out the part of his brain that held memories and wash it out in the nearby stream, wash it clean of the things he'd seen just a few hours ago. If only…

"Alive," said Danny, breaking the surface of his thoughts. "Bad shape, but still hanging on, by Rowena. We're not out of the running yet." He got up, and it was perhaps the expression on Harry's face that made him ask, "Hey. You all right?"

Harry said nothing. Danny's footfalls signaled his approach, but Harry looked away. What was he supposed to say, anyway? I'm just fine and dandy, thanks?

Danny stood there, watching him for a moment, then strode to Moody's trunk. He opened it and briskly started picking up some equipment. "I did what I had to do," he muttered after a long silence. "And so did you."

* * *

_Danny rolled towards him and stopped in a crouch, facing the Death Eaters. Harry was still stunned lying on his front, but a barrage of curses from the Death Eaters quickly brought him to his senses. He instinctively brought up his arm, but the curses ricocheted from Danny's twin Wandshields. Some of them scattered into several streams of magical energy as they struck the translucent barriers. Danny was fending them off well, but Harry noticed that the force of the attacks was starting to push him back. _

_Danny shouted something over the din that Harry didn't quite make out. "What?" he shouted back._

"_Are you deaf?" screamed Danny. "Take cover behind the log! I can't deal with them if I have to keep protecting you!" He tilted his arm and a wand dropped from his sleeve, which Harry recognized as Moody's. He grabbed it and, still keeping low, crawled to the log directly behind them. Reaching it, he peered over the brittle bark at the battle scene. _

_Danny had sped off to the side to draw their fire. He did not notice, however, the lone Death Eater who had climbed over the line of rocks and was making his way up the ridge. Towards Mad-Eye. It's Irian, Harry realized. Irian, who lusted for the Auror's life beyond all reason._

_A cold fury welled up in Harry's chest as he remembered Moody's torture. He forgot about Danny and the battle raging before him; he was not going to let this man complete that abominable act. Harry raised Moody's wand, took careful aim—_

"_LOCOMOTOR MORTIS!"_

_His spell ripped through the air and struck the small of Irian's back. The shocked Death Eater found he could no longer use his legs. He pitched forward into the sod. Attempting to push himself to his feet, he overcompensated and promptly lost his balance. His arms pinwheeled through the air for a moment before he toppled, head over heels, to the bottom of the slope._

_Harry grinned in satisfaction. He was about to turn his attention back to Danny when Irian got back to his feet. Teeth bared, forehead cut and bleeding, he pointed the wand at himself and shouted, "Finite!" _

_Eyes glittering, Irian leaped over the rocks. He approached the log from the side, affording Harry no cover. Harry raised his wand to defend himself, but the Death Eater was faster._

"_Verdimillous!"_

_The shock of the spell tore the wand from Harry's hand and threw him bodily into the air. He landed full on his back, gasping at the pain. Pushing himself onto his elbows, he saw Irian close in, wand pointed straight at him._

"_You want to die?" he asked, smiling. The scar on the corner of his mouth split wide like a second grin. Harry felt terror clutch at him. He crawled backwards on his elbows; reaching his wand was his only hope._

"_You really want to die?" Irian advanced, the savage grin widening. "I'll oblige you, brat. I'll relish eating your death!" The end of his wand flashed a noxious green._

_Then two things happened at once. First, Harry's hand closed over something as he was backing away—a sharp piece of rock. Second, a stray curse, deflected by Danny's Wanshield, struck the log Irian was standing next to. A spray of splinters forced him to shield his face with his arm. _

_Harry did not have to think. Gripping the rock, he raised his arm and threw it with desperate strength. The stone struck the Death Eater's left eye. Irian shrieked in pain and surprise as he spun in place, one arm flailing, one hand on his face. The green light died from his wand as it sailed through the air and landed beside the cliff edge._

_Harry wasted no time. He hauled himself to his feet, turned, and lurched toward what he thought was the general direction of his wand. His feet did not seem to want to obey him; he zigzagged, nearly tripping, on his way towards a line of bushes. Miraculously, there was Moody's wand, jutting out of the leaves like an odd-looking stray branch. _

_Even as his hand closed around it, part of him was already saying it was too late, that Irian had already recovered and even now was bearing down on him with a Killing Curse. But another part of him did not care. Touching the wand, all his fears evaporated. Fury was the only thing left. He was tired of running. He was tired of pain. He was sick to death of being chased, threatened, beaten down. Nothing had gone right since he left. Somebody had to pay. His anger came like a blizzard, obscuring all his thoughts except one—that he was armed and had the advantage. _

_He turned to see Irian, clutching his injured eye, stagger over to his wand and pick it up. Harry stepped forward, aiming as the Death Eater turned around. For a moment they caught each other's eye, and something was telegraphed between them. Whatever he saw in Harry's gaze made Irian buckle instead of attack. He conjured up a Wandshield and crouched behind it._

"_EXPELLIARMUS!" cried Harry._

_His ears caught the familiar whine as the Disarming Curse seared the air. It had never seemed so loud before. It struck Irian's Wandshield just above its center—and shattered it. _

_As Harry watched in amazement, the shards of the broken Wandshield flew in a scattered rain and began melting into thin air. The curse discharged on Irian's chest. It must have knocked the wind from his lungs, because he did not even scream. He flew backwards, wand leaping from his hand. It twirled, arcing through the air before disappearing over the lip of the gorge. Irian's body followed it. _

_For some moments, Harry stared at the spot where the Death Eater had been. Some shards of the Wandshield still hung in the air, slowly vanishing, the only testament that Irian had been there at all. Harry felt depleted, breathless. The anger inside of him vanished as quickly as it had come. He did not even notice the silence that signaled the end of a battle, nor Danny finally coming to stand beside him, until the elder boy took his shoulder. _

"_What happened?" he demanded._

_The wand slipped from Harry's grasped. "I…I…didn't mean to…I didn't know that would happen…"_

_Following Harry's gaze, Danny strode towards the cliff edge and looked down. Harry could not see his face, but his silence was deafening. This can't be real, he thought, this is crazy. He stepped forward to look for himself, but as he drew near Danny thrust out his hand to stop him. His next words made the situation inescapably real._

"_Don't look," he said. "Don't look."  
_

* * *

Twilight was falling around them. A soft hush descended on the forest, broken only by the night breeze as it stirred the leaves of the trees, by the hooting of lonely owl. All around lengthening shadows pooled into dark wells. Harry shivered again, but surely not from the cold. 

"I did what I had to do?" he asked bitterly.

"Yes," came Danny's reply. He had finished setting up a large, smooth stone in the middle of the campsite, which radiated heat without emitting light. Now he tended to Moody, attaching what seemed to be a metal brace around his wrist, and wrapping him in heavy blankets. Once more he checked his breathing, and nodded in satisfaction.

"I didn't mean to do it," said Harry.

Danny didn't look up. "I know you didn't. No one's blaming you."

"I didn't realize he was standing near the cliff."

"You didn't have time to think. You were fighting for you life."

"I didn't know I could even break his shield." Harry's voice rose a notch. "I didn't know—"

"He tried to take the curse full on instead of angling his shield," Danny retorted. "Of course it would break. It's wasn't your fau—"

"It's not fair!" Harry shouted. He was beyond hearing, his mind trying to dislodge the enormity of it all. "I'm not even supposed to be here! They shouldn't have known I was here! I should be back at Hogwarts by now! You were supposed to bring me back and keep me safe, that was your j— "

He didn't see Danny move, but the elder boy was suddenly on him. One hand grabbed Harry by the lapels, another clamped around his jaw with an iron grip. The elder boy grabbed him so forcefully that he knocked Harry's head against the tree he'd been leaning on. Stars exploded in his head.

"In case you've forgotten," snarled Danny, "I came just as close to dying as you did. You're not the only bloke with his life on the line. I've got a man here who's done more than I ever could, and he might be dead by morning. I'm doing everything I can to keep that from happening, I'm trying to hold things together, and the last thing I need is you shouting at the top of your lungs like a crazy fool and announcing to every Death Eater in the forest exactly where we are. They already did a hell of a job on Moody; don't finish him off. Keep your head or we'll all wind up dead. Got it?"

Silence fell as they stared at each other. Finally, Harry dropped his gaze, his rapid breathing slowing to normal.

Danny relaxed his grip. "You want to live, you have to be strong," he said, more gently this time. "We're a long way from Hogwarts. Out here, fools die.

"I need help setting up these Dark Detectors," he went on. "Safe or not, we're going to be spending some time here, and they'll be the only defense we have against Death Eater attacks. You're going to help me. And you're going to do it quietly. All right?"

Harry nodded once. Danny let him go.

"No lights," said Danny, "or they'll see us a mile off."

When they finally finished, darkness surrounded them. They settled down for the night, leaning against opposite trees with Moody lying between them. Harry could only see their outlines in the gloom.

"Danny," he whispered, "have you ever killed anyone?"

There was no answer, and Harry thought he hadn't heard. But finally, Danny spoke up.

"Sure, Robbie. I've killed loads of people. Sometimes they don't give you a choice." He paused. Harry could not read his face in the darkness. "Just forget about it," he finally said. "You're exhausted. Go to sleep."

Harry pulled his cloak tighter around him. He tried to think of Hogwarts. He tried to think of the waves lapping on the lakeshore, of the warm autumn breeze on the hill overlooking Hogsmeade. He tried to bring back the memory of Ron's face; of Hermione's. He remembered the sun on Ginny's hair, the look of laughter in her merry eyes, and felt himself curl in despair. Instead of longing there was only cold dread and a feeling of an unbridgeable distance, like a chasm had opened in his heart. He could never tell them what happened today. What would they think of him? What would they say?

_I'm innocent_, he said to himself, hiding his face in his arms. _He was trying to kill me and I was fighting for my life. I didn't do anything wrong. I just want to go back home._

But for the first time in Harry's life, home felt utterly beyond his reach.

_  
To be continued._

_  
1. Two months to write one chapter. Sigh._

_2. Thankfully, I've recently taken up The Artist's Way to free up any creative blocks. It's pretty interesting: everyday when I get up in the morning I have to write three pages of anything that comes to mind—a stream-of-consciousness exercise. I'm amazed by the stuff I come up with sometimes, because it applies not just to writing but creativity in general. Now I'm taken up planting sunflowers in my garden, just for hell of it. If you're a struggling artist too, or just looking for something new to do with your life, you can't do much better than picking this book. I highly recommend it._

_3. To help me along, I've come up with TPATS: The Soundtrack! I've collected some musical pieces that match the mood of certain scenes and characters in the story, and compiled them in to one album. I got them from all over—OSTs, New Wave, game music, foreign songs, etc. I've got the music from Once Upon A Time In The West mixed in with tracks from .hacksign. I play it when I'm writing or driving, or when I just plain need to zone out. It's easier to imagine the scenes when they're set to music._

_4. I'm annoyed by the dreariness of the past chapter. I think I'll go back to Ginny for a while. She's always fun to be with, even when she's moping._

_5. Reading J.K. Rowling's dueling scenes, I noticed that she structures and describes them as if the combatants were fencing. I decided to take it a step further and mix up swordplay and gunplay. It makes for interesting choreography, at least._

_6. No title yet for the next chapter, sorry._


	17. Husks and Promises

**The Phoenix and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**  
Chapter XVII: Husks and Promises**

"Ginny?"

Startled, Ginny raised her head. She had been completely lost in thought, watching the afternoon sun shimmering on the surface of the lake. Her thoughts had been on Harry, where he was now and what he was doing. She had a moment's confusion upon looking up and seeing his face before her.

It wasn't him, of course. The confusion turned to a stab of sorrow, then Ginny let it pass.

"Sorry," she said, "what were you saying?"

"I just wanted to know if you're ready for the next question," replied the homunculus.

Ginny ran a hand through her tousled red hair. "Yes, yes, please go ahead."

They were sitting together on a flat-bottomed rowboat, adrift on the peaceful lake. Ginny had charmed the oars to paddle by themselves, allowing them to converse while the boat wandered aimlessly on the water. The pleasant weather brought a warm breeze that was sweet with the scent of pine. And though the Black Barrier kept the sun from sparkling as brightly as it should, it's reflection on the lake looked pretty nonetheless, like a school of bright orange fish just beneath the water. On a day like today she would rather be sleeping away the afternoon, but she had an exam and only two days left to prepare for it. She had planned to go off on the lake alone, but the homunculus had asked if he could come, offering to help her study. She agreed.

She had, in the end, given in to Dumbledore's request and allowed herself to befriend the homunculus. The arrangement was not as bad as she'd thought at first, as long as she simply kept in mind that he was not Harry. She and the homunculus spent time together in the past two days, chatting about idle things, and wading through the barrage of questions the homunculus had about the world.

Between them, a flat piece of wood formed a make-shift table, and on it she had placed her study books and writing materials. The homunculus picked up the Arithmancy book on the table and flipped the pages to an exercise.

"A princess is as old as the prince will be when the princess is twice as old as the prince was when the princess' age was half the sum of their present age. What were their ages twenty years ago?"

Ginny gawked at him for an incredulous moment. "You can't be serious! What does that question have to do with Arithmancy? There's nothing magical about it at all!"

"It's a puzzle meant to enhance your skills in analysis and computation," replied the homunculus. "It should help you with the calculation of higher Arithmantic spellworks."

"That's utter bollocks!"

"But it says so right here in the book."

Sighing, Ginny started scribbling numbers on her paper, asking the homunculus to repeat the question three more times. A while later, she slumped forward in defeat. "I hate math," she moaned. "Hate it, hate it. Hate. It. They invented math to torture people, I just know it. I should have ignored Hermione's advice and taken Divination instead."

The homunculus offered a sympathetic smile. "Don't give up now."

"All right, all right," she said, after a few more calculations. "I got it now, it wasn't so hard after all. They were both 30 years old."

"Um, no, sorry. The princess was 20 and the prince was 10."

"What? Let me see that…" She took the book and flipped to the end where the answers were. "Oh, for the love of puppies! I suppose the next question would be 'if they married today, would there be a scandal?' I'd give that a big yes."

The homunculus eyed her warily. "Perhaps you should take a break. You're, um, a little distracted."

"It's not me! These questions are too bloody hard!" Ginny retrieved a pair of Creampuffins from her pocket and put them on the table. The Creampuffins blinked in the sudden sunlight, got to their feet, and began waddling to and fro.

"How do you it, anyway?" she asked, prodding one Creampuffin's belly with her finger.

"Do what?" the homunculus asked politely. He was always polite, which Ginny found amusing. Harry was simply notlike that.

"I mean how you can answer a question as loopy as that without looking at the back of the book. I think it's amazing."

The homunculus' face took on wary look. His eyes darted from one side to the other.

"Oh, come on," chided Ginny. "You can talk about yourself, you know. How can anyone hear us out here in the middle of the lake?"

The homunculus relaxed. "You're right, I suppose. About your question…I don't really know." He scratched his ear. "I'm just built like that, I guess. I don't have trouble remembering things, and figures are quite easy to work out. It's really not a big deal…"

"Oh yes, it is. In my family, only Percy got along well with numbers. Fred and George don't do sums unless it's about money, and when Ron worked on math problems, he'd carry on about migraines and his nose would start running."

The homunculus gave a tight smile, as if this was something more than he needed to know.

"How are you doing with your tryouts for Quidditch?" he abruptly asked.

"Oh, not too badly," she replied, guiding a Creampuffin away from the edge of the table. "I'm trying out for Chaser, and Katie—she's the captain now—thinks I'm the best so far from those who tried out." She grinned. "I guess that means I'm getting in."

His smile widened. "That's good news isn't it? Aren't you happy?"

The way he asked, Ginny was sure he didn't know if this was really something worth being happy about. "Of course I'm happy," she said. _But not too happy. If our Seeker actually figures out how to catch a Snitch, then I'll be really happy…_

"Don't you have any interest in Quidditch?" she asked him.

The homunculus nodded. "I find it fascinating, to be honest. I like watching the players practice. They're amazing, flying around so quickly, catching balls and shooting them through hoops…"

A question occurred to Ginny, and without thinking she asked, "Don't you feel like…joining them sometimes?"

He seemed puzzled by the question. "I don't think that would be a good idea. My progenitor wouldn't like that." He paused, then changed the subject. "I wonder… why are people so noisy during Quidditch?"

Ginny had wanted a peek on Harry's thoughts, and felt somewhat let down by the homunculus' guarded answer. But she let it pass.

"Noisy? You mean the cheering?"

"Yes."

"People always cheer during Quidditch matches. It's a way to show their enthusiasm for an exciting sport, you know."

"Exciting…" The homunculus looked up, considering the word. "Whenever Harry thought of Quidditch, and whenever he got on his broom to play, he always felt this queer sensation around the pit of his stomach, like the bottom would fall out of it. Then his pulse would quicken, and his thoughts would be focused only on the game…is that excitement?"

Ginny giggled. "Merlin, you really have no clue, do you. Yes, that's a pretty good description."

"It feels a lot like fear, doesn't it? Only more pleasant."

"I suppose so. You mean you've never felt that way?"

"No, not really." He paused again, then clarified, "Well, maybe a little, when I wake up in the morning and think about breakfast…"

Ginny giggled again. "You're really not like Harry at all!" she said. "I'm surprised you can actually fool anyone!"

"I'm sorry," he said, now looking disconcerted. "I try my best. It's just so difficult sometimes, copying human behavior. I mean, jokes, for example…"

"Not that again," groaned Ginny.

"I don't understand why people find them _funny_," he pressed. "I spend hours trying to figure it out. Why did Seamus and Neville laugh when Dean did that 'Pull my finger' bit with me? It doesn't make any sense."

Ginny sighed. "It's not supposed to make sense, it's supposed to be gross. That's why it's funny."

He shrugged. "That doesn't make any sense either."

"Whatever. Look, when people laugh at a joke, just go along with it, okay?"

He shrugged, his face easing into a smile. "That's what Professor Dumbledore said. 'Laugh at jokes, except the ones made at the expense of others.' I try and do just that."

Ginny recalled the time she rescued him from the Slytherins. "You really think the world of him, don't you? Dumbledore?"

"Well, of course! If it weren't for him, I wouldn't be out here enjoying myself, would I? But besides that," he leaned closer, as if sharing a secret, "he's just such a good person, you know? He makes everything so clear, and he's always patient and kind. He looks out for everyone in the school, and we know we're safe as long as he's around. So I can't stand people who talk behind his back."

"I know what you mean," she said, smiling. "Say, will you tell me something?"

"Yes?"

"Did he make you? Dumbledore?"

"Oh, no," replied the homunculus. "Someone else did, a long time ago. But I don't know who he is, or why he made me."

"Does Dumbledore know?"

"I suppose. I could ask him."

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter. How were you…er, d'you know how you were you made?"

He lapsed into thought, frowning a bit. "I don't remember a lot of what I was before. Professor Dumbledore once told me I was derived from a single human cell. My physical body is actually very close to a human's, but I'm not alive in the same sense humans are. My body runs on magic, though I eat, drink, sleep and breathe just the same to seem human. Also, my body does not have a truly permanent form. I can be magically made and remade to resemble any person whom Professor Dumbledore wishes me to."

"Wow…" said Ginny. She wondered, briefly, what it would be like to have the homunculus resemble her, like a twin sister. _Then I'd find out what it's like to be Fred and George._

The homunculus went on. "I don't always look like this. Usually, I'm this small…" he held out his palms six inches apart, "…and I look like a baby in its mother's womb. When I've no reason to be out, Professor Dumbledore keeps me like that and contained in a jar, suspended in liquid nutrient that sustains me."

Ginny tried to imagine the homunculus in a jar, like some sort of pickled fruit. "That doesn't sound very comfortable," she remarked.

"Oh, it's not bad at all!" said the homunculus. "It's very comfortable living in a jar. It was always cool and pleasant and I like the feeling of being suspended. I don't have a sense of time or purpose. I'm only dimly aware of the things going on around me, moving shapes and muffled sounds and all that. I dunno, I really like being out here again, and meeting people like you…but to tell the truth, I'm also looking forward to going back to my jar once Harry gets back two days from now."

"Well, okay," said Ginny, still sounding doubtful, "but I really can't imagine living comfortably all sealed up..." She paused, backtracking on what he said. "Pardon, did I hear you right? Did you say, 'being out here _again_?'"

"Why, yes I did."

"Dumbledore brought you out before?"

"That's what he told me, yes. He used me to take on different identities in at least three separate occasions over the course of the years."

"But if that's true, if you've been out here before, then how come you don't know how to, er, act more human?"

He scratched his ear again, looking somewhat embarrassed. "Well, the thing is, I don't get to keep the memories Professor Dumbledore gives me. He drains them in order to return me to the jar. So I have no idea who I was before, and each time I go out I have to start fresh."

Ginny reflected on this for a while. "That sounds kind of…sad."

"Huh?"

"I mean, you've lived three different lives before this one, and you don't remember anything from any of them…no happy memories, no good times, no friends. You don't get to keep anything."

The homunculus sat quietly for a moment. "I've never thought of it that way," he finally confessed, "but it's all right, I don't particularly mind. It's my function to impersonate people. There's really no point in remembering my life."

"But you don't have anything," protested Ginny.

He smiled. "I am of use to the Professor. That is enough."

"Well, all right. But…suppose you had something more?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Like?"

"How about your own name?"

"A name?" He goggled at her. "You're suggesting I get my own name?"

"Yeah, why not?"

He looked worried all of a sudden. "Ginny, that doesn't sound like a good idea. Out of my jar, I'm supposed to be Harry Potter, no one else."

"Oh, come on," she said. "You can still act like Harry if you need to. And it's not like we're going to tell everyone about it."

"But why would I need one? I won't remember it for long. Harry's coming back in a few days, and after that, I'm going back to my jar."

"Because we both know you're not Harry. Wouldn't it be nice to have something you can call your own, even for a short time? Your own identity? And besides, it's not just for your benefit. I'll be honest, okay? I'm really not comfortable calling you Harry. It…it doesn't really feel right. Sorry."

"Oh...I had no idea."

"Well, I don't want to keep saying, 'Hey,' when I see you, so I'd like you to have your own name. Don't worry, I'll use it only when it's the two of us. How 'bout it? "

"I…well...let me think." He paused, brows knitting. "I suppose as long as we don't use it out in the open, it won't do any harm…"

"Great! So…" Ginny picked up her quill and wrote "Names" on a fresh parchment. "What's a good name you could use?"

"Well, I've always like the name Albus. Can I use that?"

"Um, well…"

"Not a good idea? Uh…how about Dean?"

"Um…I don't think so."

"And I really liked that one too. How about…Sirius? No?"

Ginny put her quill down. "It would be nice if you could pick a name that doesn't belong to someone we already know. I mean, the whole point of this is to be somewhat unique, right?" As the she pondered the matter, the Creampuffins sidled up to her quill to stare at it curiously. "Maybe something related to Harry's name would be more useful, so in case anyone hears it, you and I can explain by saying you picked out a new nickname."

He looked doubtful. "A nickname? But Harry's short enough as it is…"

"Yeah…unless…" Ginny suddenly perked up. "I got it! Jamie!"

He blinked at her, not comprehending. "Jamie?"

"It's from James, Harry's middle name. What do you think?"

"Jamie," he repeated.

"It's easy enough to remember, and…well, let's face it, anyone who hears me call you anything other than Harry will think I'm kind of weird anyway. I'll just say I like calling you Jamie."

"Jamie…" The homunculus's face broke into another Harry-like smile. "I think I can get used to it…"

"Perfect! Now you're one step closer to being more human." She leaned back with her hands on the boat floor, enjoying the sun for a while. It won't be warm for much longer, she thought, thinking of the cool winds of October. It was good she took time to enjoy this day.

She was amused to find that her Creampuffins had started a rousing game of tug-of-war. Sugar-bloated wings flapping, her quill stuck firmly in their beaks, they skittered from one side to another, trying to determine the prize's owner. After a few minutes of this spectacle, her eyes strayed to her right, watching the shore as it slowly wove past them. Then her good mood instantly vanished.

Just beyond the shore rose a gently sloping hummock, crowned by a tiny copse of trees. The place was as she remembered it: the gentle rain of crisp, brown leaves, the soft sway of faded grass, and if she looked hard enough, she would surely see dandelions carpeting the ground in tiny white blossoms. It wouldn't be long before they'd be buried under the first fall of snow. Must the winter come so soon?

She closed her eyes and mentally sent a wish to the dandelions. _Keep him safe, wherever he is_, she thought, _and when he returns, let him tell me..._

"Is it really important for people to have their own names?" Jamie suddenly asked.

Hearing Harry's voice gave her a jolt. _It's not him, get ahold of yourself._

"Of course," replied Ginny, without opening her eyes. "It's the first thing your parents give you the moment you're born. And it's yours for the rest of your life."

"I really wouldn't know that," said the homunculus thoughtfully, "since I was never born and never had parents."

She opened her eyes at this. "Does that bother you?"

"No, I don't feel anything about it at all. It's beyond my experience, so I don't understand it."

"But Harry's parents...surely you remember them…"

"I do, but..." He shook his head. "I remember names, faces, events, but I don't remember the feelings that go with them. I can remember having eaten an apple, I remember it's supposed to be sweet, but I can't recall the taste of it or the pleasure of eating it. That's my weakness, Ginny. That's why I don't think I make a very convincing human." He leaned towards her, eyes bright. "But maybe you can help me there."

Ginny gave him a quizzical stare. "What do you mean?"

"You've read a lot of books, right? Maybe you can recommend a few, stuff that could help me understand people better. What do you think?"

"I-I'm not sure how to help," she said. "What kind of books do you mean?"

"I mean the kind that show how people feel and react to situations realistically," said Jamie. "Stuff that can give me some idea of how people really are. How they love and hate, what they think is funny or sad, that sort of thing. So, can you help?"

"Well," said Ginny slowly, "the best way to know something is to experience it, at least that's how I see it. But if you want to learn about people through books, I guess you'll learn the most through stories."

"Stories?"

"Absolutely. The good ones can show you so much about being human. I think it's because when their authors made them, they put in so much of what they know and experience. Some say they give away a piece of their soul."

The homunculus tilted his head to one side. "Soul? I remember the word, but not..."

"I'll have a difficult time explaining it, so don't ask me," hurried Ginny. "Just read a few stories, okay? Then you'll know what I mean."

"And you know a few, right? Good ones?" His face took on a hopeful look, an expression she'd never seen on Harry's face before.

Ginny was about to say yes, then stopped. A thought occurred to her, something she had wanted to ask before, yet always backed down. And before the more discreet part of her could protest, she said, "I'll help…for a price."

Jamie looked somewhat taken aback. "A price?"

"You want information, don't you? I want information too."

"O-okay. About what?"

"Later. First, you need books, right?" She picked up another piece of parchment, retrieved her quill from the Creampuffins, and started making a list of assorted books she could use.

By the time she handed the list over, Jamie was smiling from ear to ear. He beamed as he looked the list over and thanked her profusely.

"So," he said afterwards, "what did you want to ask me?"

Ginny took a deep breath, and said, "It's about Harry."

She paused, considering again. _I shouldn't ask him. It's between Harry and me, and should stay that way. _

But the opportunity was here; Jamie was watching her, waiting for her to continue. And the temptation to ask was too much.

"It's somewhat…I mean, this may sound funny to you…" she began.

The homunculus looked apprehensive. "You mean it's a joke? I'm really not too good with those."

"No, it's not a joke! This is serious stuff, and I'd really, really appreciate it if you don't tell Harry I asked you this when he gets back."

He raised his eyebrows. "Oh…well, if you say so. But…why?"

Ginny made an impatient gesture. "Because it's terribly personal, and I'd be extremely embarrassed if he ever heard a word of it."

"Oh, I see." He nodded, his expression growing serious. He folded the list and slipped it into his pocket. "In that case, you can count on me. I swear I won't tell anyone else."

Ginny gave him a nervous smile. She cleared her throat and composed herself.

"Yes, well, here goes," she said. "Jamie…about Harry…"

She paused, suddenly at a loss. The words, so easy in her head, suddenly became slippery on her tongue. Should she find a better way to phrase it? But what if he took it the wrong way? What if he reacted just like Harry did?

For many moments, her mouth worked wordlessly. The homunculus still gazed at her, waiting for her question. Finally, Ginny squeaked, "How does… how does Harry…see me?"

The homunculus regarded her in silence, then he cracked a smile and leaned back. "Oh, is that all? That's easy."

Unconsciously, Ginny held her breath.

"You see," he began, "all kinds matter, like you for instance, reflect light to some degree. The light you reflect travels through space and enters through cornea of Harry's eyes. It then passes through the vitreous fluid to the optic nerve—"

Ginny's breath came out in a rush. "That is NOT what I MEANT!"

The homunculus blinked. "Huh?"

"By how does he _see _me, I meant how does he _like_ me."

"Oh." Jamie shrugged. In that case, he likes you just fine."

She narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean by 'just fine?'"

"Well…" He thought a moment. "I mean he thinks you're really nice, like I do."

"_Nice_?"

"Yeah. Nice."

Ginny took a deep breath. This was getting her nowhere, but she might as well play along. "All right, Jamie. Nice in what way? What about me does he think is nice?"

The homunculus thought for a minute. "Nice…" he mused. "He thinks your family is nice."

_Oh, brother,_ thought Ginny.

"He thinks the Burrow is nice. He thinks the stuff you like—reading, making scarves, Creampuffins—are nice too. He thinks your stories and jokes are nice. They make him laugh."

_Hokay, that's enough._ Ginny was about to ask him to stop, when he added, "He thinks your hands are nice."

Her mouth dropped open. "My…hands?"

"Yeah. He likes how soft and small they are. He sometimes thought about how smooth your skin felt when you held his hand."

Ginny suddenly could not find her voice.

"He thinks your hair is nice," the homunculus added, resting his chin on his hand. "He likes the color, especially when it's undone and shining in the sunlight. He thinks your smile is nice. He likes how it calls attention to your freckles, which he also likes. And he likes the color of your eyes. Like, I dunno, cinnamon, or something…"

Unbidden, Ginny's fingers touched her face. Her cheeks were burning.

"He likes to hear you laugh. He likes the way you fall asleep with your cheek resting on your hand. He likes it that you like things that are small and meaningless to anyone but you. Like flowers and seeds and little animals and words strung together in ways no one had ever thought of before."

Jamie sat still a moment, then he seemed to break out of his reverie. He brushed back his hair and smiled, actions that brought a familiar pang in Ginny. "You see?" he said. "Harry thinks you're quite nice. I could name some more things for you, but I'd probably go on forever."

"Please do," whispered Ginny.

"I'm sorry?"

"Um, nothing," Ginny shifted her eyes away from him. "How come he's never told me this?"

"I...well...I believe he thought they were rather stupid things to say."

"But why?"

He frowned a little. "I…don't really know."

She bit her lip. "But he…he likes me?"

"Of course he does."

"But…does he like me…as a friend?"

"Absolutely."

"No!" She turned to him. "Not like that…I mean, oh, what do I mean?" She buried her face in her hands. "Does he think of me the way Ron thinks of Hermione?"

She peered through her fingers. There was confusion in Jamie's eyes. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean," he said slowly. "Harry's never talked to Ron about that."

Ginny lowered her trembling hands. She clasped them together, sucked in another deep breath and asked, "What does Harry feel for me? Am I special to him? He's kept me in the dark for so long I can't guess what he's thinking. But I just have to know, I don't want to wait anymore. I need you to tell me if you can." She looked up at him earnestly. "Does he…does he love me?"

There was a stillness in Jamie's eyes, and his face had an unreadable look. He was quiet for a long moment, then he leaned forward. "Ginny…"

Ginny found herself leaning forward as well.

"Ginny," he said, "Ginny, I'm sorry. I don't know how to tell you this..."

She felt something sink inside of her, and cast her eyes down.

"I'm truly, truly sorry," he said, "but I really don't understand your question."

It was all Ginny could do to stop herself from picking up an oar and knocking him into water. "I think. It's time. We got back." Each phrase was said through gritted teeth, and punctuated by a flick of her wand. The oars began rowing them ashore.

Jamie was watching her face with a look of apprehension. "I'm really sorry, Ginny. I promise to get back to you on that once I understand it better. Love, and all that. Harry didn't have, well, he never thought about it much and I've little to go on...um, are you all right?"

"Yeah. Just. Peachy." Ginny grumbled. Three more beats of her wand, and the oars rowed faster.

"Ginny?" He sounded a little more scared.

She didn't answer, keeping her gaze fixed on a spot somewhere over Jamie's shoulder.

"Ginny? I think we should slow down…"

"It's fine. Really fine. I'm _fine_, you're _fine_, everything's _fine_. I really need to get back already. _Fine _with you? _Fine._"

"Um, Ginny?"

"WHAT?"

"Look out for that—!"

There was an almighty crash as the boat struck a rock protruding above the water. Ginny squealed, grabbing the sides of the boat as it lurched sharply to the left. Her reflexes saved her, but her ink bottle, the Creampuffins, and the homunculus pitched over the side and fell into the water with a loud _SPLASH!_

"Oh, ogrespit!" cried Ginny. As the boat righted itself, she leaned over the water and shouted, "Jamie! Jamie, where are you?" She wondered, in a panic, if he also remembered how to swim.

She needn't have worried. A breath later, the homunculus' head burst out of the surface of the water, blinking and coughing out water. Beside him, floating more effortlessly, bobbed the two Creampuffins. Three pairs of eyes looked up at her in complete bemusement.

"Oh, Jamie, Jamie, I'm so sorry," wailed Ginny. "I didn't see it, I should've listened to you! Are you all right? Here, let me—"

"Er," he said, "I take it you don't want me in the boat? Should I just swim to shore?"

Ginny stared at him for a moment. His face and tone seemed so earnest and deferential, that at last she could not help herself—she laughed out loud.

The homunculus blinked up at her. "When Dumbledore told me not to laugh at jokes made at the anyone's expense," he said slowly, "does that include me?"

* * *

When they made it ashore, she casted a Drying Charm on his robes and hair. The homunculus tilted his head from side to side to get rid of the water in his ears, then finally sat down on the shore beside Ginny. "Thanks for helping me out. I didn't have that spell…" He gestured at his wand. 

"No problem," came her reply. "Just correcting one of my little injustices. Look, I'm really, really sorry, all right? I had this terrible moment when I thought you'd drown, or your body would dissolve in water, or something."

He smiled at her. "You don't have to worry about that, I'm as insoluble as any human. That's a good thing—I mean, people at the dorm would be suspicious if I didn't bathe everyday like they did."

"Or if you started melting in the shower," she giggled again. "So, you can do pretty much everything a human can? You really are amazing."

He paused. "Oh, there are some things Dumbledore forbade me ever to do, because they'd give me away."

She peered at him curiously. "Like what?'

He looked around again, making sure they were alone. "Firstly," he said in a low whisper, "I must never let myself bleed. And second, I must never cry."

"Why not?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but then stopped himself, looking over Ginny's shoulder. Ginny turned at the sound of running feet and saw someone running full tilt towards them.

"Hermione?" cried Ginny as her friend came to a stop, sweating and breathless, before them. "What's the matter?" It was not so much Hermione's haste than the look of urgency on her face that pushed Ginny to ask. But some part of her already knew the answer.

"Professor Dumbledore," Hermione gasped. "He's calling a meeting."

* * *

The headmaster had been explicit with his instructions. Leaving her things in the care of the homunculus, Ginny and Hermione hastened back to Hogwarts and proceeded to the fifth floor. Turning left at a branch from the main corridor, they approached the broom closet situated in the middle of the right wall. They came here because Dumbledore believed that the main entrance to his office was too open, and going there would not go unnoticed by watchful eyes. An alternate route was needed. 

They acted as nonchalant as they could, but Ginny could feel Hermione's tension from the way she squared her shoulders and how her eyes flicked from side to side. Ginny felt her own heart thrumming loudly in her chest. Dumbledore would have no reason to call them just a few days before Harry was scheduled to return, unless something had happened. Unless there was trouble.

"Well," breathed Hermione, staring at the door. "Here we are. He said he'd enchanted it, so I expect we shouldn't have trouble."

"He didn't say why he wanted to talk to us?" asked Ginny.

"Not a word. I just received a written message telling me what to do and to bring you with me. Ron would be informed as well. The message vanished as soon as I finished reading it."

The mention of her brother gave Ginny a sudden jolt. Ron had no idea that Harry had visited her the night he left, nor any idea why Harry would do something like that. He'd be wondering why his sister would be present in this meeting, and at the moment Ginny could not think of a good explanation.

It was too late anyway. Hermione, after looking both ways to make sure no one was coming from either side of the corridor, tapped the doorknob twice with her wand and said, "_Eciffo S'erodelbmud_!"

Nothing happened, or at least Ginny thought nothing did. But when Hermione pulled the door open, what appeared before them was not the cramped insides of a broom closet, but the spacious confines of the headmaster's office. Bewildered, they stepped through the threshold. The door clicked shut behind them and vanished into thin air.

"A Trans-Portal," marveled Hermione, "and what a clever disguise for it!"

"Why thank you, Miss Granger. I'm glad it still works after all this time. We are fortunate the Black Barrier's influence does not extend to the systems confined within Hogwarts."

Dumbledore emerged from behind a bookshelf, wearing a pale gray robe decorated with the deep blue silhouettes of nightingales. His tone was even and friendly, but Ginny noticed the trace of shadows beneath his eyes.

"Welcome," he said. "Let's sit down while we wait for Ronald, shall we?"

With a flick of his wrist, four chairs zoomed out from the shadowy corners towards the headmaster's desk, jostling each other as they vied for attention. Ginny chose the cushiest one, while Hermione sat down on the one with a straight back. To their surprise, Dumbledore did not sit behind his desk as usual, but chose a third chair beside Hermione. They sat together in a small semi-circle.

He started to offer them sweets, but Hermione could not wait. "Please sir, has something happened? Is Harry all right?"

Dumbledore paused. "You will know everything in a moment. Rest assured, I will answer your question as best I can. However, for the sake of efficiency, Ronald should be present—but here is now…"

Another click of a shutting door, and Ron's voice floated over to them. "Sorry I'm late, Professor, we were about to start Quidditch practice when I got your message, and I had bit of a moment explaining to the captain—_Ginny_?"

She turned her head to see her brother striding over, still dressed in his red and gold Quidditch uniform. He eyed her quizzically.

"Nevermind me," Ginny said, trying to buy time. "The Professor's about to tell us something important."

"Indeed," said Dumbledore as he activated the Security Charms of the office. "There will time for explanations later. Please take a seat, we won't take long."

Ginny looked away as Ron sat down, but from the corner of her eye she could tell his gaze lingered on her for some time.

"Now then," Dumbledore began, "as you may have guessed, I have news concerning Harry's situation. Forgive me for being blunt, but the news is not very good." He proceeded to give a quick and detailed explanation of what had transpired.

By the time he was done, however, Ginny's head was spinning with shock. Ron's face was pinched in worry, and Hermione looked so pale Ginny was scared she would faint.

"An…an ancient vampire?" Ron muttered weakly. "He killed an ancient vampire?"

"Corpulus disease…" breathed Hermione. "And Death Eaters…oh my."

Ginny could not find it in herself to say anything.

"S-sir," said Hermione, "is he all right? Isn't Corpulus…fatal?" Her voice fell on the last word. Ron gave her a look of alarm.

Dumbledore turned her kindly gaze at her. "I don't think we need worry about that. The Healer we sent made sure he would be cured, and in all likelihood he has completely recovered by now."

"So…where is he?"

Dumbledore sighed. "Because of the Black Barrier, we are unable to communicate with them nor transport them quickly to safety. While we are sure Harry and his companions are alive, we do not know exactly where they are. All we can assume is they are heading for the nearest place of safety. That would have been Dunwick, but now it can be any number of places. Continuing the search is all we can do for now."

"But with the Death Eaters after them…"

"Sirius and Remus will not stop until they find Harry first and deliver him to safety. And Harry's bodyguards are not behind with their combat skills. Bringing him home is top priority for the Order and its allies."

"But sir," interjected Hermione, "the Death Eaters shouldn't have known he was there! If everything has been planned in secret, how could You-Know-Who have found out about it?"

"I am not certain, but I believe the Dark Lord does not know," the headmaster said, "or to be more accurate, he does not know he knows."

Ron and Hermione exchanged confused looks. "Er, I'm not getting you, Professor," said Ron.

"If he was certain that Harry would be in Hillsdale, there would not have been four Death Eaters there to capture him, but four dozen. No, those men were spies, sent to investigate a lead."

"But where would they get the lead? Unless a spy had been feeding them information…"

"That is possible, but not likely, since we have done this mission with utmost secrecy. And none of you knew of Hillsdale save for Alastor Moody and myself."

"Then how could he have known?" asked Ron, completely stumped.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers. "Most likely, through a hunch."

Ginny, Ron, and Hermione goggled at him.

"It is simple enough, once you think deeply about it," Dumledore said. "Harry is known to have dreams of the Dark Lord. He often has nightmares, and his scar aches in conjunction with whatever intense emotions the Dark Lord experiences. This is due to the psychic link forged between them by a Killing Curse that failed.

"Yet this link can certainly work both ways. If Harry can sometimes see things through the Dark Lord's eyes…"

"Then the opposite can also be true!" said Hermione, comprehension dawning on her face. "He can see through Harry's eyes!"

"Or see Harry's memories," added the headmaster. "The Dark Lord is skilled in Legilimency, the art of drawing emotions and memories from another person's mind. Admittedly, this is something unexpected, and will be dealt with accordingly from now on. But before any of that, we must bring Harry to sanctuary. Nothing can be done before then."

Ron spoke up. "So, You-Know-Who isn't sure if Harry's really out of Hogwarts, right? He's just guessing?"

"That is what we believe, yes."

"But we have that homunculus here! Isn't that good enough proof?"

"The Dark Lord has a powerful intuition, Ronald. There are times even his guesses, though far-fetched, prove to be accurate. He is well aware of that."

"Then, what good is having a double for Harry?"

"It will do us good still," Dumbledore said. His face remained calm, yet

his voice carried a tone of finality. "Now, more than ever, the three of you must continue to pretend Harry is here in Hogwarts. In time, the Death Eaters may give up their chase and turn their attentions back to the war. That, after all, is what we of the Order want them to do. Yet even here they have eyes, and we must do nothing that will let Lord Voldermort know of our plans, nor let him confirm his own suspicions."

The mention of that dread name cast a pall over their gathering. Hermione paled again, and Ron nearly leaped out of his chair. Ginny, however, stayed stock still.

The look in Dumbledore's eyes softened. "I am truly sorry," he said, "but in all likelihood, Harry will not be able to return in the time we agreed on. We may hope, of course, for the Black Barrier to be somehow dispelled or for another means to bring Harry here to present itself...but as things lie: it is not likely."

* * *

They left the office together, through the same broom closet they entered. For some time, no one said anything. The air felt heavy with gloom at the thought of Harry not being with them, at least not anytime soon. For Ginny, it was not so much a thought as a weight upon her heart. How much longer did she have to wait? 

"Well," said finally Hermione. "Well."

"He's alive," said Ron in a distracted manner. "As long as he's alive, we're good."

"And it might not take that long to find him, really," added Hermione. "I mean, the Order's looking for him, right? And they've got Sirius and Remus, don't they? And Mad-Eye Moody. And another bodyguard."

"Yep," said Ron, "good hands. He's in good hands."

Ginny stared at them astonishment. "Don't talk about it here," she admonished. "Who knows who might be listening!"

Her voice seemed to snap Ron out of his torpor. He turned to her and said, "I don't understand why you're involved in this, Ginny."

Ginny opened her mouth to reply, only to shut it again. What exactly could she say?

"Ginny's a friend of Harry too, Ron," Hermione explained. "Professor Dumbledore just thought it would help if she could..."

"Why'd he ask _her_?"

"Why do you think? Because she's your sister, and can be trusted with this!"

"Look, I already told you not to talk about it," interrupted Ginny. "We're putting Harry in danger by—"

"It's because she's my sister's the reason why she shouldn't be part of this," Ron argued, as if he hadn't heard her. "She's too young for this sort of thing! What am I going to tell Mum if she—"

"Oh, drop it Ron!" Ginny shouted. Right now that was the last thing she wanted to hear. "_Just drop it, okay_?"

Both Ron and Hermione looked taken aback, but Ginny turned and stalked away.

"I've every right to be where I want to be," she muttered as she walked, "considering what I've been through on Harry's account." She was so focused on thinking about him that she didn't realize where her feet were taking her. She was slightly surprised to find herself standing in front of the portrait hole of Gryffindor Tower, with the Fat Lady peering expectantly down at her.

"Um..." Ginny demurred. She tried to call up the password, but her mind kept drawing blanks. "I...uh...I'm really sorry, I can't seem to remember..."

"Well, you know what to do, right?" the Fat Lady said kindly.

Ginny sighed. "Find someone who does." But before she could turn around, a familiar voice behind her spoke up. "Salamander Skittersweets."

The door popped open, and Ginny turned to see the one face she least wanted to see at the moment.

"Hi Ginny," the homunculus said, smiling brightly at her. "I've decided to get started on the list you gave me. I borrowed these—" he lifted the stack of books in his hands a little higher "—from the Library. It's more than half the list."

"Oh," said Ginny. "Right."

"I suppose I'm 'excited' to start reading then," he added, relishing the word. "Say, wanna go through them with me? You've probably read them dozens of time before, but..."

"No. Thanks."

He looked confused, and slightly hurt, by her aloofness. "Oh… all right," he said. "I'll go right up to bed and get started. See you later, okay?" And he strolled past her into the common room. She heard his steps receding as he climbed up the stairs to the boy's dormitory.

For a long moment she remained where she was, facing away from the entrance, gazing at nothing. Only when the Fat Lady cleared her throat did she finally turn and make her way into the common room.

Only a handful of people were present. Three first years busied themselves doing homework in one corner, Seamus and Dean were playing Exploding Snap near the stairs, and Lavender and Parvati were warming their hands near the fire and laughing about how Professor Cowl managed to put even Nearly-Headless Nick to sleep during their last Potions class. The usual liveliness of the Gryffindor Tower had been dampened somewhat ever since the Barrier went up, but people did their best to stay cheerful. No one, thankfully, noticed her come in. She chose a high-back chair near the window, faced it away from everyone, and slouched into the cushions.

Outside, the sun had finally begun its slow descent through the treetops of the Forbidden Forest. The Black Barrier had turned it to amber, like the last glow of a spent campfire.

_Everything will turn out all right,_ she thought, watching the dusk arrive._ Dumbledore said it will all be all right, and he's never failed us before._

But these only echoed Jamie's words, and they offered her no comfort.

"What makes you so sure?" she whispered. "As far as my family's concerned, we don't even have a home. The Burrow's now in Dark Army territory. Mum, Dad, Bill and Charlie, they're all in the Order, fighting both the Dark Army _and _the Ministry of Magic. Who knows what will happen to them? And Percy, the utter git, breaking Mum's heart by not lifting a finger to help. And Harry…"

She felt misery permeate through every inch of her skin. The thought of Harry out there somewhere in the wilderness, without food or shelter and hounded by an army of Death Eaters, made her sick with worry. And to think that just an hour ago, she'd been more concerned about something so trivial as his feelings for her! For all they knew, he could be dead by now! From disease, or the elements, or a Death Eater's curse, or…

This was how she felt the night Harry left—so helpless and small, easily crushed by sudden a change in her life. She hated the thought that Harry was beyond her help. What use was she? What was her place in all this? What could she do other than worry?

_I want to see him,_ she thought, shutting her eyes tightly and trying not to cry. _'I just want to see him; not a dream or a memory, not some double who can't even figure out what feelings are. I want to know Harry's all right. I want him to rest and not bother with war, even for a little while. But most of all, I want him near me._

_I want Harry_.

She stayed there with her eyes closed, undisturbed in her little space. Sounds began to fade around her; people were retreating to their respective dormitories. Some unknown time later, she opened her eyes to the gentle sound of approaching footsteps. Through the window, she could see that the sun had long quit the sky, and dim moonlight illuminated the forest canopy. Only the brightest stars were visible through the Barrier.

Hermione appeared on her right. "Hi, Ginny," she said quietly. "Are you all right?"

Ginny simply nodded.

"Oh, who are you fooling?" Hermione bent down and hugged her. "I know you're not. Neither are we. And it's okay."

There was really nothing to be said, no real words of comfort. Hermione understood that. Ginny hugged her back, and this silent act eased the ache inside of her.

After a while, Hermione let go. "I'm a little tired," she said, "I'm going up to bed. You ought to as well, after..." She smiled and nodded to someone on the other side of Ginny's chair.

Ginny looked to her left. Ron stood there, towering over her.

"Heya," he said. He grinned an uncomfortable grin.

"Hi," said Ginny tentatively.

They fell silent as Hermione's footsteps faded into the background.

"Not feeling too well either, are you?" he asked.

She shrugged. "What time is it?"

"Just a little after nine."

Ginny wanted to get up and follow Hermione to the dormitory, but Ron knelt beside her chair. Surprised, she stayed where she was.

He said, "Hermione and I...we've been talking..."

"Yes?"

"About Harry mostly. Then a little about you. Hermione tried to explain a lot about what's been going on."

She sighed. "Let me guess, you didn't like much what you heard."

"Let me finish, why don't you?" he grumbled. After taking a deep breath he said, "We don't talk a lot, do we?"

She stared at him, trying to figure out what he was getting at. "No, I suppose not."

"I don't keep track of you anymore, not like I used to. And it looks like a lot of stuff happened to you that I never had a clue about. I guess that's kind of expected, it's

just that I never thought you'd, ah..."

"Grow up?"

He grinned. "Yeah, a little. No, the way Hermione talked about you, I guess

a lot. But my point is, I didn't think you'd have your own problems, that you're probably having a hard time of this too. Then I started thinking, you know, 'what's my little sister going through?'"

He looked so earnest, so open, that for once she didn't mind the term 'little sister.'

"It's kind of overwhelming, you know?" he went on, turning his gaze down. "The world's at war, and I don't know if we're ever going to see the Burrow again. Or Mum and Dad, or our brothers, come to that. Sometimes I feel so stupid and small and helpless. Sometimes I think I'll go mad."

"I...I feel the same way," whispered Ginny. That made him look into her eyes.

"But I get by somehow," he said. "I get past it."

"How?" she asked. To her surprise he averted his eyes, his face flushing.

"Hermione," he said. "Hermione makes all the difference.

"Somehow just being with her and talking about it...somehow it makes things easier. None of it all goes away, we're still pretty miserable. It's just that, when I'm with her, our lot's somehow bearable. There's a reason to get up in the morning and think, 'maybe today won't be so bad.' And sometimes, it isn't."

He looked back at her. "But then I wonder, how does Harry get through it?

"He's got a lot more to face than I do. He wakes up every day knowing he's connected to You-Know-Who every moment he's alive. The Dark Army's out to kill him, and lots of people think he's a liar or a nutcase. What keeps him going? And who's he got to keep him going?"

Ginny said, "He's got you and Hermione, of course."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. And we help him out however we can, but...you know, it's kind of not...not the same between us anymore, is it. Not since Hermione and I got together." He shrugged vaguely. "You understand?"

"I...think so..."

"Hermione and I've both got someone to lean on. There are things we talk about that Harry can't be a part of. But who's Harry got? No one. Well, not yet." He gazed at her intently.

"Ron..." she stopped, not knowing what to say. "What in the world are you getting at?"

He sighed. "What I'm mean is...oh, what the hell do I mean?" He scratched his crown of red hair. "I think it's a good idea, you and Harry being together."

"Ron, of all the..." She grasped for words, off-balanced and utterly embarrassed. "W-why are we even talking about this? It's-it's really not important now. It's all so trivial—"

"What are you talking about?" said Ron hotly. "Of course it's important! Haven't you heard a word I said?"

Ginny blinked.

"Didn't I say that the only reason I can get up in the morning is because I've got Hermione? Didn't I say that being with her makes it all better? Don't you get it?"

At her confused expression, he muttered, "I thought you girls are supposed to be experts on these things. All right, listen. Like I said, I was talking to Hermione, and when she told me about you two, I was surprised. Really surprised. Yes, to be honest, I didn't like it. I mean, this is my little sister we're talking about—I know, I know, you're not a kid anymore, don't bite my head off." He shook his head. "I honestly wasn't thrilled by the idea.

"But then I got to thinking...what's really important, anyway? Harry's life is hard enough as it is, especially now. It's so hard he can't even talk about it with anyone. I guess because he thinks no one can really understand him. But he can't go on like that. He's got to have someone to make life easier for him. The way Hermione and I make life easier for each other." He fell silent, then added, "I reckon...I reckon everybody deserves to feel like we do at least once in their life. And, well, if you two feel that way...that's good, right?"

Ginny stared at him, speechless. She'd never thought she'd live to hear Ron say something like this.

"Well, you _do _feel that way for him, don't you?"

She said, "I feel so much for Harry, it hurts. But I-I'm not sure how he feels about me."

Ron crossed his arms in thought. "It didn't sound like that from the way Hermione told me. It sounds like he fancies you..."

She glared at him. "You're his friend. Don't you know?"

"I, well, no...honestly, I never noticed."

"You ought to know these things!"

"Don't blame me, I was busy with Hermione, okay? I-I mean...busy...well, uh, besides, I never really thought you were old enough to start dating!"

"And now?"

"I still think you're not old enough. But then, Mum and I'll probably think that for the rest of your life. So...well...just go ahead and prove us wrong, all right? When he gets back, sort out whatever needs to be sorted out and carry on with it. I mean, life's too short and all that." His voice dropped a notch. "If you can, make him happy, even just a little. The git needs it. You both do, I guess."

Ron may not have noticed, but Ginny was seeing him now in a new light. Today, perhaps for the first time, she had absolute proof that her brother really did love her.

He pursed his lips. "You're not going to cry on me, are you?" he asked.

"No, you dork." Wiping her moist eyes, she whispered, "Ron...thank you."

"Don't mention it. I mean that. Especially to Mum." He sighed. "My little sister and my best mate. Oh well, it could've been worse. Imagine if you fell for Malfoy..."

They both shuddered. "Not if he were the last breathing man on earth," she vowed. "I'd sooner marry the giant squid."

"And I'd be the best man," Ron averred, and they laughed.

"That Harry," he said when they recovered, "I swear, he's nothing but trouble. He promised Hermione and I we'd be having butterbeer in the Three Broomsticks after two weeks. And where is he now?" He looked sadly out the window. "Where is he?"

"Harry isn't really very good with keeping promises," said Ginny. Part of her felt bad having a go at someone who wasn't around to defend himself, but Ron only laughed again.

"Yeah," he said. "It's probably not his fault. But you know, he does keep a lot of stuff secret, and that really pisses me off."

"I know." She followed his gaze out the window. "But we have to trust him. He has to realize we do, and that he can trust _us_."

"Yeah," Ron murmured. "If that's all we can do for now to help, all right. I'll trust him."

And for a little while, Ginny felt at peace. After a moment's silence, she said, "Just one question."

"Yup?"

"Aren't your knees aching?"

"Kind of." He got to his feet with some effort, and stretched. "Ouch. Ah well, it's getting late. I'm off to bed. G'night, Ginny."

Then Ron did something he almost never did. After making sure no one was looking their way, he bent down and gave her a hug. He was quite brief about it, but not so brief that Ginny didn't have time to hug him right back.

* * *

It was nearly ten when Ron, weary but content, finally climbed up the stairs to the boys' dormitory. He changed and went straight to bed, and as usual did not even spare the homunculus a glance. 

The homunculus did not notice him, though. He sat in his pajamas by the nighttable, idly writing by candlelight. Having done all his homework, he had come up with an entertaining way to end the day. A minute later, he put down his quill and admired his handiwork.

He had spent a good while writing the name 'Jamie' over and over, till finally he had filled both sides of the piece of parchment. His reason for doing this was simple: he wanted the pleasure of seeing it written, his very own name, the one thing that, at least for a little while, truly belonged to him.

"Jamie," he murmured, a soft smile crossing his face. "Jamie." It was his treasure, something he could keep at his bedside to look at every night, and something to whisper to himself every day till the moment he had to return to his jar.

He slipped the parchment into his drawer and turned his attention to the list of books Ginny had given him. Which one should he read first? They all looked so interesting, each an open portal to the human mind. He picked one at random, selecting the book from the bottom of the stack. Then he got into bed, settled himself, and began to read.

The title on the flyleaf was _The Little Mermaid, _written long ago by a Muggle author so famous his works were read through the years by many open-minded wizards. In the long days to come, the homunculus would read this story over and over, and eventually would know it by heart. And though he did not yet realize it, this story would come to shape his life, his dreams, and for good or ill, his final fortune.

To be continued

_  
Author's Notes:_

_1. This has been so far the easiest chapter for me to make. Some days the words just kept flowing, and I had the distinct pleasure of feeling the story writing itself out. Unfortunately, it was also riddled with mistakes. If it hadn't been for my editor, I'd be wallowing in embarrassment by now. Thank God for her patience and good sense. Take note: editors and beta readers are a must for writers. We have an inborn blind spot for our mistakes._

_2. I had my first negative review of TPATS a few months back. The reviewer claimed my fic was long, bloody, ugly, and comparable to WWII. It gave me something to think about, if maybe I was going too far. Well, truth be told, I don't think I have. The review was missing the point. I think the darkness only works to bring the inherent goodness of the main characters to the fore, the way an painter can highlight form and colors by using shadows. As Lyle said, what use is a candle in a well-lit room? There are no heroes in peacetime, no hope without despair, and love unwashed by pain is hollow and hungry. There IS joy, truth, and compassion in this world, but we learn to value them only because we find them in the dark._

_3. Researching the term homunculus upon finishing the chapter, I found out that this creature is derived from a single sperm cell, laid in the ground surrounded by horse manure for forty days._

_All I can say is, thank God Jamie doesn't remember a thing of it! I can't even begin to describe the look Ginny'd have on her face!  
_

_Chapter XVIII: "Medals and Scars"_


	18. Medals and Scars

**The Phoenix and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter XVIII: Medals and Scars**

Harry woke to the scent of the forest and the sight of a leaf-strewn floor. For a long moment he sat where he was, forehead against his bent knees, motionless with disbelief. Somehow he'd survived another night in this godforsaken wood. Daylight had come, shining through the canopy of leaves above him and creating constellations of light on the surrounding ground. He had no idea what the hour was. He had no idea even what day it was.

He lifted his head, groaning as his neck and shoulder muscles ached in protest of his sleeping position. He stretched and rubbed at them, then realized his arm no longer felt as weak as before. Carefully he unwound a part of his bandage and looked at his wound. One crescent-shaped mark of Wagnard's claw had formed into an ugly purple scab, but an angry red welt no longer surrounded it. Coven was as good as his word.

The thought of Wagnard brought Harry back to his waking dream. He'd seen it again, for a third night in a row, the bright red glow of the Crystal Cage and the image of that woman. She always looked the same each time he saw her, clad in a crimson robe tied by a black sash around her waist. Her skin was not the sickly pale color of Wagnard's flesh, but gray as granite. Her emerald eyes stared without blinking, and her hair was the color of a billowing flame. He was sure he'd been looking at Dahlia, the Cimmerian Sorceress.

The image of her always filled him with a sense of foreboding, although she never spoke, never made a move towards him. He reached beneath his shirt and felt for the Crystal. It was there still, hung around his neck like a protective charm. He wondered now if it was wise to keep it anywhere near him at all.

But he had not been harmed so far. If the Cimmerian Sorceress was truly alive inside the blood-red gem, it seemed she had no power outside of it.

Leaning against a tree for support, Harry pushed himself to his feet. His legs were still weary from travel and lack of sleep, but at least they were no longer numb from the Corpulus disease. He stretched his limbs and took in his surroundings.

The hollow where they camped looked even smaller in full daylight, just five steps long at its widest. It was a shallow crater, carpeted in dry, yellowing leaves that crackled beneath his feet, and surrounded by a concealing wall of thin trees. Some half-buried rocks, decked with moss and lichen, ringed the edge of the hollow. From somewhere nearby came the soft sound of running water. Danny had chosen their hiding place well.

Scattered about the encampment were Moody's Dark Detectors, droning like drowsy bees. Danny had apparently deployed every one he'd found in Moody's trunk. Yet the sight of them did nothing to exorcise Harry's fears. Here in the wilds they slept near wolves and bears and all manner of predators, not all of them animals. These devices seemed such a flimsy defense against what waited in the dark heart of the forest.

His eyes fell upon the figure at the center of the hollow. Moody lay flat on his bedroll, covered up to his chest in heavy blankets. Harry had a terrible moment when he thought the old Auror had already died in the night, but relaxed when he noticed the soft movement of his breathing. A little color had returned to his ashen cheeks, and the pale ring had gone from his dry lips. The night before, Danny had clamped a dark metal bracelet around one of Moody's wrists—perhaps some kind of healing device? The old man looked quietly, deeply asleep. Of his godson, though, there was no sign.

Harry's stomach let out a low growl. He put his hand on it, grimacing. He had not eaten anything in the last twelve hours. And where was Danny? Harry looked about. He hadn't strayed off again, had he? Not when they were virtually defenseless here!

Cold worry filling his empty guts, Harry stepped towards the birch trees to peer out into the open, only to leap back when something dropped onto the leaves near his feet. It was a little drawstring pouch.

"There're some nuts and figs in there, if you're hungry," came Danny's voice.

Surprised, Harry looked up. High above him, Danny balanced himself on the upper branches of a birch tree. The branches looked too thin to safely support his weight, yet he trusted them with a careless grace, one hand holding onto the trunk and the other shading his eyes as he gazed out to the forest beyond. His long striped scarf wafted behind him like a kite's tail.

"How long have you been up there?" Harry asked him.

"Since the sun came up," he answered. "You get a nice view for miles around. We're in luck. No signs of pursuit."

It struck Harry that while Danny was watchful, he seemed completely fearless and at ease. A part of Harry envied the elder boy's calm.

Harry picked up the bag. Inside were several handfuls of acorns, figs, and raisins. Pretty much the same thing he'd been eating for the past few days. They tasted good, but did next to nothing for the hunger. As he reached into the pouch, Harry tried not to think of the processions of roast beef, baked potatoes, and chicken he'd enjoyed at the feasts of Hogwarts.

"Don't eat the whole thing," Danny called to him. "Gotta save some for the old man when he wakes up."

Harry ate a handful of raisins and resealed the bag. His stomach grumbled for more and he did his best to ignore it.

"How long do you think we can stay here?" he asked.

"We're staying until Moody wakes up and is strong enough to travel," answered Danny. "I'm not risking moving him again."

"But what if…" Harry's words trailed off. He did not want to sound like he was afraid, that he wouldn't risk his safety to save Moody.

"If any Death Eaters get close," Danny continued for him, "then I guess I'll have to slaughter them, won't I."

Harry inwardly recoiled at those words. The very thought of killing made him ill. He sat down heavily, fingering the pouch and wishing he could have some more to eat. Not for the first time, he wondered if there was any more help forthcoming. It seemed that every kind of rescue they'd counted on had failed.

"I wonder when Dumbledore's going to find us," he said out loud.

"I wonder if he's still looking."

Harry jerked his gaze back up at him, not believing what he just heard. "Of course he is! You don't really believe he's going to leave us out here like this, do you?"

"Oh no, I'm sure he won't. That's why he's moving heaven and earth the past few days to find us. Bloody good work. I can almost smell the cooking from my own kitchen now."

"Dumbledore IS working on finding us and he WILL rescue us!"

"Very optimistic, aren't you?" Danny finally turned his gray gaze down at him. "Well, I just wish he'd hurry the hell up."

"That's rich," Harry shot back, "coming from a bodyguard who took his sweet time going around the chasm while Moody and I were this close to getting killed!"

In a heartbeat, Danny had leaped down to land in front of Harry, his face devoid of expression.

"Take out your wand and follow me," he ordered, and strode out through a gap in the trees.

For a moment, Harry stood there dumbstruck. Part of him wanted to fight, furious as he was with Danny's snide remarks. But another part of him felt ashamed, and afraid he had pushed Danny too far. Still another part was horrified of the possibility of another confrontation with lethal magic. The image of Irian's pain-stricken face as he fell backwards into the gorge floated up before him, and he quickly shook the thought off. It didn't do any good to think about that, or to stand here doing nothing. Danny would think him a coward. Harry followed him out of the hollow.

As he picked his way down the low hill, he found himself in a wide clearing covered in meager brown grass and clusters of late wildflowers. Several feet away, a wide blue ribbon of water flowed across the clearing, bubbling around the few low grey rocks that dotted it before losing itself once more among the trees. The reeds lining its shores bowed low as if to drink, partially obscuring a pair of ducks that were curiously watching them. Past the brook ran a short clear space, then the thick barrier of the forest began again. And beyond it all, the rim of an endless sky, broken only by jagged treetops and the occasional startled bird.

Danny stood at the center of the meadow, arms folded and expectant. Harry pushed the thought of the elder boy's proven skill and experience out of his mind as he approached. Danny towered over him, silent and stony.

"Well," began Harry, keeping his voice steady, "what?"

"Let's get started," said Danny. "We each take two steps back."

They did so, Harry never letting his eyes stray from Danny's own.

"You'll need your wand," said Danny.

"I don't need to do this," Harry retorted, but he pulled out his wand even so.

"Hey, you were the one who asked for it."

"I didn't ask for anything!" Harry curled his hands into fists as he stepped forward. "It's you who's being such an inconsiderate prat!"

"Oh, so I'm a prat now for keeping my promise?"

Harry stopped, blinking. "What?"

Danny raised his eyebrows in amusement. "Training, that's what I'm talking about. What did you think we were going to do?"

Harry's mind went blank. Danny took him out here to _train_? "We're not…dueling?"

"Na-a-a-aw!" Danny cried, choking back his laughter. "No, no, no. Hoo boy, that'd be like an ant challenging an elephant.

"I was just thinking that if we don't work off all this tension, we're likely to do something stupid. When I'm under pressure, I practice. So I thought, well, why don't I just go on and keep my promise. I said I'd teach how to duel—you asked, remember?"

Harry blinked again. He did remember asking back in Hillsdale, but he thought Danny wasn't taking him seriously. In fact, he probably still wasn't.

"You're not taking the mickey out of me, are you?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

Danny spread his arms. "Hey, you were the one the one who said you wanted to learn how to duel so you can fight your 'evil uncle.'"

Harry bristled at his words. But more than that, the thought of dueling brought the events of yesterday fresh to his mind. Shame burning inside of him, he tucked his wand back into his jeans.

"I don't feel like it."

"What?"

"I said I don't feel like it! If it hasn't occurred to you yet, I just killed someone yesterday!"

"You want to know my take on what happened yesterday?" snapped Danny. "It happened because both the parties involved didn't know what the Kneazle's arse they were doing. That Death Eater was an idiot who didn't how to handle a Wandshield properly, and he paid for it. But guess what? You don't know how to use a Wandshield either. You don't even know what the hell it is. And while we're lost in the middle of nowhere with Moody out of business and no help in sight, I'm not about to trust my back to someone as green as you are. So this isn't just to your interest, all right? I want to make it out of here too, preferably with all of us alive."

Harry stood where he was. He didn't want to admit it, but Danny had a point. They were in a dangerous situation, and staying unprepared would mean he would never lay eyes on Hogwarts again. If he wanted out of here, he had better learn how to fight. Now was the best time to learn.

"All right," he finally said. "You're really teaching me how to duel, then?"

Danny's face relaxed into a smile. "You ready to learn?"

"Yeah." With his anger faded, Harry didn't quite know how to handle the situation. "What do I have to do?"

"Well let me tell you how this works: I talk, you follow instructions. Don't interrupt me and don't question me. You do that, you learn something. Clear?"

Harry didn't like his smug demeanor one bit, but said, "Fine."

"All right. To begin with, let me explain something." He sheathed his wand and started pacing, hands behind his back. "Dueling is both a science and an art. If you do it right, you can control the situation. And when you're in control, people don't always have to die.

"Dueling isn't about killing people. It's about winning against them. So that brings us to the First Holy Commandment of Dueling: _Win. _That's all; you've got to win. But there's only one way to win, and that's through respect. You gain respect, and you make the other bloke lose it. Got that?"

Harry nodded.

"Right. One other thing: Dueling isn't just a matter of a guy pointing a stick at someone and saying some mumbo-jumbo, hoping the other guy's just going to stand there and take it. You don't move your feet in a wizard battle, you don't move them ever, afterwards.

"So that brings us to the Second Holy Commandment of Dueling: _Always protect yourself_." He stopped pacing and gazed straight at Harry. "What's the Second Commandment?"

Harry rolled his eyes. He didn't know how long he could take Danny treating him like some school kid. "Always protect your—"

He barely even saw Danny's hand move, just a quick flash before the world around him disappeared in a blinding white haze and a ringing noise came to his ears.

He came to when a hand shook him by the shoulder. "Hey, kid, wake up. C'mon, we don't have all day."

Harry gasped as the haze slowly lifted from his eyes. He swayed on his feet, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs from his brain. "Wha…what…"

"What's the Second Commandment again?"

"You jinxed me!" cried Harry, "You just went ahead and jinxed me!"

"Yeah. So?"

"That wasn't fair! I was _not _ready!"

"Then you haven't learned anything, have you?"

As Harry stared at him in outraged disbelief, Danny sighed and said, "In a duel, words are cheap. Your opponent talks to distract you, make you lose focus. He's certainly not going to be polite and wait for you to get ready. Protecting yourself means you're _always_ ready. You're body's supposed to know the Second Commandment, not your head. So again, _what's the Second Commandment_?"

He jerked his hand up. Harry instantly leaped away.

"Precisely," said Danny. "Now you're learning. Let's move on."

Harry had no time to stay angry. He spent the next half-hour showing Danny everything he knew about wizard combat from Second Year, only to be told he had to unlearn them. "Forget it. Worthless. Complete rubbish." Danny shook his head derisively. "We've got our work cut out for us."

"We'd work faster if you stopped criticizing and start teaching me something useful," Harry grumbled.

"All in good time, kid. And by the way, didn't I tell you not to question me?"

Danny was as good as his word though. The first practical lesson was the Wandshield.

"It's one of the best forms of protection against projectile spells," Danny explained, "and one of the easiest to learn. You were taught the Protego Charm from school, but that's not nearly as good. Protego works by shielding you on all sides to deflect curses aimed at you. But there's that thing about defense: You protect your front, you're weak at your back. You protect your left, you're weak at your right. And if you protect all sides…"

"You're weak in all of them," Harry concluded. It did make some sense.

"Right, and don't interrupt me again. Protego's brittle and can only defend against minor jinxes and curses. Even if it manages to deflect a curse, there's every possibility it may hit your companions. Therefore, you need something more accurate and effective."

He raised his wand and a silver Wandshield emerged, radiating from the tip into a wide circle. "The Wandshield works by concentrating defensive magic on a single area around your wand. With one move you can defend any side you wish. And with enough training, you can even deflect the curse in whatever direction you want."

"So a Wandshield will protect me from any curse, then?" Harry asked.

"All except one. You know which one that is, right?" Danny looked meaningfully at Harry's forehead, where the scar ought to be. Harry got the hint.

"Then how do I defend myself against that?"

Danny shrugged. "You tell me, _you_ survived one. Anyway, a Killing curse will break a Wandshield like a rock through a windowpane." He shut down his shield and motioned to Harry. "Now you try it. To summon a Wandshield, point your wand in front of you. Keep it level with the ground, and concentrate your power at the tip. The incantation is '_Luxaegilis.'_"

Harry did as he was told. Eyeing the end of his wand, he imagined silver energy radiating from it into a protective circle. "_Luxaegilis!"_

At first, only a small bright spark would burst from the tip. It took many minutes and several tries to sustain it into a shimmering little shield, two inches wide.

"Look, I'm trying, okay?" Harry said when he saw Danny's mouth twitch. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve and concentrated harder.

It took an hour more, but finally Harry managed to conjure the same silver Wandshield Danny created. He stared at it in wonder. It looked like a great gleaming translucent lens radiating from the tip of his wand. Through it, the world took on a shimmering, silvery tinge, as though he was looking at something bright through a film of clear water.

"How long before I learn to Mindcast this?" he asked Danny.

"If you practice everyday, probably less than a month. So practice, it every moment you got. Clear?"

Harry nodded. He didn't have to be told that. He was going to do it anyway.

"Good,'" said Danny. "Now, let's test it."

Harry gazed at the elder boy in alarm when Danny took several steps back. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like? Just protect yourself."

"Hey, wait a minute! It took me an hour to make this!"

"Whether or not that breaks is entirely up to you, Robbie. Concentrate on keeping it up and you'll be fine." He stopped backpedaling and raised his wand. "Ready or not…"

Harry ducked behind his shield and turned it at Danny. His ears caught a whizzing sound as a curse sliced through the air. It discharged at the very center of the shield. The force nearly shoved him off of his feet. Harry felt like he was given a mild shock; the jolt ran down his arm and into his body, rattling his teeth. He grabbed his arm and steadied it.

But the Wandshield held.

"Not bad," Danny called to him. "You're catching on. Okay, now a stronger one!"

"Wait!" cried Harry. "I'm not—"

The curse struck his shield like a cannonball. The wand in his hand quivered like a bowstring and, surprised, he loosened his grip on it. A high-pitched noise like shattering glass erupted in his ears, and the last thing he saw before white haze lowered over his vision again were the translucent shards of his Wandshield, twinkling in the sunlight as they scattered in all directions. Some indeterminate time later, he woke to someone slapping him lightly on the cheek.

"Merlin's beard, kid," said Danny, "how are you going to learn to defend yourself if you can't control a Wandshield?"

Harry felt his veins constricting around his temple. "It would help," he replied through gritted teeth, "if you let me learn at my own pace."

"Nah. You want to learn to swim, you hit the deep end of the pool." He strode away back to his original position, and Harry was sorely tempted to attack him from behind.

"Look, I'll show you how it's done." Danny turned around and readied his wand. "Go on. Gimme your best shot."

That gave Harry pause. "Just attack you, yeah?"

"Absolutely. And don't go easy. I can handle it."

He beckoned with his wand. Barely restraining his glee, Harry concentrated, drew back his wand into a ready position.

"Just go for it, kid!" said Danny. "Drop the poses and just shoot me!"

"You got it!" shouted Harry. "_EXPECTO PATRONUM!_"

A cloud of glaring white light shot from his wand, turning instantly into the brilliant form of a stag. His Patronus wasted no time; it lunged straight for Danny, who was stock-still in surprise. He brought up his Wandshield at the last moment, but the Patronus slipped through it as if it were made of air.

"Whoa!" Danny leaped back to avoid the stag's antlers. His foot struck a fallen branch and he fell backwards. The Patronus soared over him, turning into thin mist before vanishing altogether.

Barely suppressing his laughter, Harry approached his teacher, who lay very still with his feet propped up on the branch. He would have given anything to snap a picture of the shocked dismay on Danny's face.

"What's that Second Bloody Commandment again?" asked Harry.

* * *

The sun had turned their shadows into dark pools beneath their feet by the time Daniel decided to call it a day. They climbed up the hill to the gap between the trees. Harry sat by himself for a minute while Danny went in to check on Moody. 

Harry breathed in the cool forest air as he sat in the shade, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. It felt good to stretch and use his muscles again. He could hardly believe it, but Danny was right—staying busy did help relieve the tension. Already he was eager for more practice, and hoped that Danny would accommodate him later that afternoon.

After some moments the elder boy rejoined him, all the liveliness drained from his face. "No change," he said as he sat on the grass. "Stable, but no change."

Harry watched the look of worry in his eyes and said, "I'm sure he'll be all right. He looks better now, and he did last through the night, didn't he?"

"Yeah, I guess," Danny replied, "I'm just…eager to get a move on." His face took on a wistful look. "Nap must've wrecked my house by now, never mind all his training."

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but could think of nothing to say. What _could _he possibly say? He was as homesick as Danny, and he had no comfort for himself. So he changed the subject.

"Would you tell me something about yourself?"

Danny cocked an eyebrow at him. "Why?"

"Well, no reason. It's just that we've been traveling for some time, but I don't know much about you. Except that you eat-sleep-and-breathe dueling and you live with a niffler."

Danny looked as if he didn't think much about talking, but said, "Exactly what do you want to know?"

"For instance, how long have you been living alone? Don't you have family?"

Danny lay down and pillowed his head on his arms. "Quite some time. Seven years, I think. Ever since I left school. I didn't have any family I could stay with, so I lived on my own."

"What about Moody? Didn't he…"

Danny shut his eyes. "No, he didn't find me a place to live. I asked him not to. I wanted to make my own way.

"I made a living running errands for people, then struck out on my own as a private investigator and mercenary. You know, for stuff people didn't want to take to the authorities for some reason. Or are too dangerous for them to do themselves."

Harry figured the reasons weren't exactly legal, Danny's nature being what it was.

"Is that why you have a hidden wand, then?" Harry asked.

One eye popped open to stare at him. "What's this, a Ministry Inquisition?"

"No, I was just wondering. It's just that it's a strange wand. Exactly what is it?"

Danny held up his left hand. The silvery wand slid out of his palm like a concealed knife. It looked like a streak of moonlight, somehow solid enough to be grasped.

"It's a phantom wand," Danny said. "Works just as well as a regular wand, except of course it's ethereal and can pass through my body." The wand vanished into palm, then like a sleight-of-hand trick it reappeared in his right hand. "I keep it in my left forearm, as a nasty surprise for some unruly folk who don't like to fight fair. I wear a Quidditch armguard over it because, well, the glowing tends to freak people out." He offered it to Harry, who gingerly tried to take it. His fingers slipped through it when he tried.

"You have to be absolutely sure you can grasp it," said Danny, "otherwise you won't be able to." Harry tried again and this time managed it. The phantom wand was cool to the touch and weightless as air.

"It's amazing," breathed Harry, turning it his hand. "Where'd you get it? What's the core made of?"

Danny did not answer for a while, and when he did, his tone signaled finality. "A friend gave it to me a couple of years back, and that's all I'm going to say. Some things I've got to keep confidential, you know." He retrieved it and, with a flick of his fingers, the wand slipped it back into his palm. He lowered his arm again, looking up into the sky. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this to anyone either. Sometimes the element of surprise is the only thing that keeps me alive. Anyway, what about your wand?"

Harry fished it out. "It's 11 inches, made of holly, and has a phoenix feather core."

"Can I?"

Harry passed it to Danny, and he turned it around with his fingers. "Ollivander," he muttered. "Thought so. Good balance, not tip-heavy. I like the make, and holly's always a good choice if you want to control something as intense as a phoenix feather." Harry felt a bit of pride at these words. He had always liked his wand.

Danny twirled it around his fingers, nodding in approval, then unsheathed the black wand from his belt. "This one's made of ash," he announced. "Nine inches. The core's a helix made from a bicorn's horns. It's not much good at long range, but the short length lets it pack a punch up close. Perfect for busting through Wandshields."

"Did Mr. Ollivander make that too?" asked Harry, warming to the conversation.

"Na-a-a-aw," came Danny's laughing reply. "If Old Ollie put out combat wands like these for boys like us to pick up, the Ministry'd haul his ass to court! I got this while I was abroad, in America, right after I got out of school. You want good dueling wands, you get them in America. All shapes and sizes, any core of your choice without restrictions, and no hassle on the paperwork, so long as you have the money!"

"I'll keep that in mind," said Harry, though he doubt he'd ever make it outside of Britain, much less get to America. "But I'm quite satisfied with my own. It's my first one, after all."

"Yeah, but it's good to have some backups, you know, if you can get them. You never know about these things."

"Do you still have your first one, then? Or did you just discard it?"

Harry was surprised to see Danny's smile falter. "My first wand? I, uh, no, I didn't discard it."

"Oh? What happened?"

Danny's smile vanished altogether as he gazed at the forest edge. "The Ministry broke it."

Harry took a moment to hide his shock. The Ministry of Magic only broke wands as punishment for crimes. He was threatened with that back at the beginning of Third Year, and he instantly remembered Hagrid, who was expelled from Hogwarts many years before. They were both innocent, but something told him Danny was not.

"I'm sorry I brought it up," said Harry.

Hearing this, Danny seemed to snap out of it. "Don't be," he said, laughing a little. "Don't be. Merlin, it's been so long ago, it hardly matters. Yeah, the Ministry snapped my old wand in two before kicking me out of Hogwarts."

"But…why?"

"Oh…" Danny's smile was sharp and secretive. "Because I was 'bad.' Or so they said. I did some things they didn't agree with."

_No wonder he's reluctant to talk about anything linked to Hogwarts_, thought Harry. "But what did you do?"

Danny opened his mouth to reply, but a sudden noise interrupted him. "What was that?" he asked, sitting up. "Did you hear it?"

Harry jerked his head up. His ears had caught it too: a low rumbling, distant and obscure. He frowned. "It sounded like…an explosion."

Both of them leaped to their feet, and Danny grabbed a nearby branch of a tree and hauled himself up. Swinging up from branch to branch, he was soon back at the vantage point where Harry had seen him that morning.

"What is it?" Harry called up to him. "Do you see anything?"

Harry saw him cock his ear to the south. Harry strained to listen as well, but heard nothing more than the susurration of the wind in the leaves, and the low droning of Moody's Dark Detectors.

Finally, Danny said, "It's a battle. I see some smoke over the treetops, and I think I hear spellfire."

Harry turned south, and sure enough, he saw a thin ribbon of rising smoke marring the jet blue canvass of the sky.

"A battle? The Death Eaters?"

Danny nodded. "Most probably. Fighting the members of the Order, I bet."

A wild hope surged in Harry's heart. "Dumbledore IS searching for us!" he exclaimed. "This is our chance! We ought to go there, help them somehow!"

But Danny was shaking his head. "I don't think so."

"What? Why not?"

"From the looks of it, the fight's a good three miles away. It'd take more than an hour should one or both of us go there, and by that time the battle would be over. It'd be good if the Order wins, but what if the Death Eaters do? We'd be a sight if we walked in on them in the middle of their victory party."

"But—" '_We're _this _close_,' Harry wanted to say.

"Plus, that would mean leaving Moody behind. I'm not going to do that. No way."

Harry's face fell. Again, Danny had a point. They'd be risking Moody's life if they left him alone. And Harry knew he wasn't skilled enough yet to either go off on his own or stay and protect Moody. It was too much of a risk.

Danny leaped down and landed beside him. "Don't you worry about it," he said. "Whoever wins, they're likely to come looking for us here. If it's the Order, then we get to thank our lucky stars. But if it's the Death Eaters, well," he grinned, "at least we'll be the ones waiting for them, hey?"

Harry took a deep breath to drown his disappointment. Patience, all they needed was patience. Now was not a time to make a mistake by splitting up. They'd made too many mistakes already. The next one may well be fatal.

* * *

For hours, they watched both the distant plume of smoke and the forest edge, and strained to catch voices or the sounds of fighting. Harry felt an equal measure of hope and dread as he watched the smoke fade to nothing. He had forgotten all about training. Sooner or later, he thought, people—hopefully the right ones—were going to step through those bushes in the south and find them. 

The sun swept low, reaching for the horizon hidden behind the treetops. The shadows lengthened once more, and a cool breeze began to blow from the far-off mountains. Still, no one came looking for them, and they gave up when twilight descended on them.

They crept out of the hollow down to the brook. Danny kept his eye on their surroundings as Harry knelt to wash. The water felt cool against his skin as he splashed his face. After Danny took his turn, they filled a kettle and returned to camp, where they ran it through purifier device Moody had in his trunk. After a long afternoon of tension and expectation, the water was a godsend. Harry nearly choked in his eagerness to drink, the water so cold and painfully sweet on his parched tongue.

As he put his cup down, Danny laid out the smooth black rock again, an artifact that emitted heat without light. He set it in the middle of their camp, next to Moody. After checking all the Dark Detectors to make sure they were working properly, he sat himself near his godfather's bedroll again. The elder boy didn't seem much interested in either drinking or eating. He stayed by Moody, sometimes adjusting the blankets and checking the old man's pulse. Harry heard him muttering something he couldn't make out, but the tone was unusually gentle, even soothing.

_Even if you did lose family to the war, what gives you the right to deprive others of their own?_ Danny's words to the Death Eaters echoed in Harry's mind. Danny said he had no family he could rely on, but now Harry realized this was not true. Despite all the fighting, all the insults, the old man obviously meant a great deal to him. Harry found himself imagining, just for a moment, that Sirius lay there instead of Moody, and he felt a pang of sympathy for other boy.

Harry wanted to say something reassuring, but before he could think of anything, Danny got up and moved to the entrance of the hollow.

"Go and get some rest," he said, sitting down. "I'll take first watch. I'll wake you up in six hours so you can take a turn."

Harry lay down on his bedroll, looking up. Misty moonbeams slanted through the branches above him, and through the gaps in the canopy of leaves he could see the stars. He'd never seen the night sky so vast, or the stars so many, like diamond dust scattered on black velvet. Ironic that he would notice that out here, but perhaps that made all difference. Maybe knowing danger was always near heightened his senses, making cold and wet days a complete misery, and yet making peaceful nights such as these glimpses of paradise.

Danny abruptly said, "Let me ask you something, if you don't mind."

Harry blinked. "Yeah?"

"What's it like being Harry Potter? How does it feel to be the savior of wizardkind?"

Surprised, Harry asked, "Why do you want to know?"

Danny shrugged. "I've never met a celebrity before. I'm curious."

At first, Harry couldn't think of a reply. So many feelings came to mind, he thought he'd have no way of explaining it completely. Then he blurted out, "I'd rather not be one. A celebrity, I mean."

"Hmm?" Danny turned and peered at him. "Why not? I thought you'd be living a sweet life, being the darling of the public. What's wrong with being famous Harry Potter?"

"'_Famous Harry Potter_?'" Harry gave a bitter laugh. "'Famous Harry Potter's' just something everyone else has created! It's got nothing to do with me. What's wrong with it? Almost everything! People staring at you all the time, wanting to be your friend just because you're famous, having all these expectations on how you ought to be, and when you don't live up to them they think you're dirt. And everything you do, whether you succeed or fail, gets pasted on _The Daily Prophet_. People are always eager to see you mess up; at a drop of a hat, they'd use your name and make up all sorts of stories about you. You think I'd put up with that, just to be '_Famous Harry Potter'_?" He sat up to look at Danny, who was watching him silently. "I'd rather live like this, like a different person, like a nobody. I'd rather have no one to use me and nothing to live up to. I'd much rather trade fame for freedom. You said something like that once, right? Of anyone, I'd think you'd understand!"

Danny sat quietly for a moment, considering him. Then he gave an amused snort and said, "Gods, are you always this angsty? How do your friends stand you?"

Harry gave a cold stare and slumped back down. "You don't get it at all."

"I do, actually, and I agree—there's nothing quite like living with no one tugging at your strings. So I'll tell you what: as long as you don't pull any of that 'I'm Harry Potter, Gotta-Save-The-World' crap on me, and thank goodness you haven't, I'll treat you like a regular person. How's that?"

Harry considered this, then deciding Danny was sincere, he turned to face him. "Sounds good."

"And I get to call you Robbie."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "What for? It's not my real name."

"Yeah, but what the hell. I like it better. Besides, you did say you'd rather be someone other than 'Famous Harry Potter.'"

Harry smiled. Danny always wanted his way. But this was something he could readily agree to.

He closed his eyes, shifting around until his body felt comfortable. Soon, he felt it, the tiredness of his body, and the first little gaps in his thoughts that signaled sleep. As he yawned, an idle thought came to him.

"Danny?"

"Yep?"

"I was wondering...why'd you stay? You could've just walked away back in Hillsdale… when you found out who I was. What made you stay?"

He didn't expect a reply, but he heard one, right before he finally fell asleep. "Well, I can't just leave you to face your 'evil uncle' alone, can I? Us orphans have to stick together."

* * *

Harry dreamed. Somehow he knew he was dreaming, aware as he was to the unreal quality of his surroundings. This time, however, he did not see the tall woman in the crimson robe, as he expected. This time it was something infinitely more terrible. 

When he opened his eyes he was still lying in the hollow, but neither Moody nor Danny was there with him. Moonlight poured in through the leaves and the branches of the trees; the shadows they cast on the forest floor looked like grasping, skeletal hands. Despite the chilly air, the autumn mist had somehow lifted and the forest had taken on a distinct clarity.

Harry tried to get up and suddenly found the muscles in his arms and legs had seized up. It felt as if something heavy and invisible pressed down on his chest. He struggled to raise his arms and sit up, then froze as his ears caught a noise from somewhere nearby.

_Click. Click. _

His breath caught in his throat. A nameless fear filled him. Something was out there, just out of sight beyond the flimsy circle of trees. He heard heavy footfalls. One after the other, circling the hollow. Looking for a way in.

_Click. Click. Click. _

Fear pumped from his heart to his limbs, galvanizing him. He struggled to move and managed to sit up. The clicking noise came from the front now, near the gap in the trees which was the only way out. In desperation, Harry pushed himself off of the ground, trying to get to his feet. But his legs were useless. He fell back down in a heap.

It was too late anyway. The clicking ceased, but a shadow had blocked the moonlight filtering through the gap in the trees. It had come at last, blocking the exit. It had come for him.

Harry felt a rush of terror, so strong he thought his heart would stop. The shadow was a great, featureless lump of darkness, but for the twin coin-like eyes that glowed with an unholy white light. They fixed him in their lidless stare.

A heartbeat later, with a roar of two voices, the shadow lurched forward. A massive arm shot towards him. Harry screamed as a huge paw reached him, ready to tear out his heart.

* * *

"HEY, WAKE UP!" 

Harry's eyes flew open as he jerked away from the hand on his arm. Gasping, he recoiled from the figure before him, his back hitting the nearest tree trunk.

Danny was crouched in front of him, staring at Harry in surprise. "Calm down," the elder boy said, looking somewhat unnerved. "You were moaning in your sleep. I tried waking you up but you started shouting. You all right?"

Harry's eyes darted from left to right, confirming to himself there was nothing waiting beyond the trees. The air was silent but for the wind in the leaves and branches. Only when he was sure of this did he lie back down, wiping the cold sweat from his brow.

"What the hell was that about?" Danny asked him. Harry couldn't answer. The terror was still too near.

"Just a dream," he said. "Just a stupid dream."

"Your dreams always give you heart attacks?"

Harry did not answer. _I should be so lucky, _he thought angrily. He hated this, hated the waiting, hated the shock of waking up to nothing even though he felt danger at every side. Why doesn't somebody—_anybody_—just come and take us away already? Anything but this endless, slow-burning tension that was killing him inside out. Why doesn't something just happen?

"Anyway," said Danny, "It's only been about three hours. Have some water then go back to sleep."

"Forget it," said Harry listlessly.

"Hey, you're jumpy. You need some rest, that's all."

"What's the use?"

Danny frowned. "What do you mean 'what's the use?'"

"We're going to die out here anyway, right?"

"_What_?"

"You said it yourself. The Order's never going to get here in time."

Danny's jaw fell open. "Now wait a minute—"

Harry's voice was devoid of emotion. "Dumbledore must be at wit's end by now. We've tried everything and we're still stuck out here. Now the Order probably doesn't even know where to look. I guess it's just a matter of what kills us first, right? If the Death Eaters don't get us, then hunger will. Or maybe disease. Or some hungry animal while we're asleep in our beds."

"Hey, cut that out! I didn't say any of that! Of course Dumbledore's going to find us! Of course we're going to get rescued!"

Harry grinned without humor. "Awfully optimistic, aren't you?"

"Stop that!" Danny grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him. He's afraid, Harry realized dimly. Danny's bravery had only been a façade and it had given way. Oddly enough, Harry didn't care. He roughly shoved Danny away.

"You cut it out!" he shouted back. "I'm sick to death of this! Nobody's done a thing to save us! We're going to die out here!"

"WE'RE NOT GOING TO DIE!"

"YES WE ARE! WE ARE AND IT WON'T MEAN A THING! IT WON'T—"

A low moan sounded through the still air. Surprised, Harry fell silent. Danny whirled about, simultaneously drawing his wand. But there was no threat. Their gazes converged upon the figure lying on the bedroll.

Moody's eyes twitched, then opened to gaze dazedly above him.

"Moody?" The word dropped from Danny's mouth, filled with hope and disbelief.

The old man's magical eye swayed, first to Danny, then to Harry, then back to his godson. Danny edged towards him. "You're...you're awake? You're all right?"

A low muttering issued from the Auror's cracked lips. Danny bent down, turning his head to listen. Harry watched them, silent and astounded.

A moment later, Danny straightened up and turned to Harry. His smile overflowed with relief, and his eyes were moist and bright.

"He's asking, 'Who do I have to jinx to get some sleep around here?'"

* * *

The day dawned quickly in the east. At his post, Harry watched the sky change, chameleon-like, from dark violet to pink to a startling light blue. Not even the Black Barrier could fully erase that beauty. 

_I've lasted another night in the woods_, he thought, watching sunrays streak through the sky. _That's got to count for something._

Danny had woken up ahead of him and had headed down to the stream to wash up. Harry had opted to keep watch over Moody. He was about to settle back when he noticed the old man was already awake. Moody's magical eye swiveled a full circle, taking in his surroundings, before settling on Harry.

"Danny?" he rasped.

"It's me," Harry said, wondering if Moody could recognize him. "Danny's outside."

Moody shook his head a little to clear it. "Can't see very well. Kind of…hazy."

"It's still a bit dark," Harry assured him "Are you feeling all right?"

"Do I look all right?" groused Moody. "I can't raise my legs and most of the feeling's gone from my left arm." With an effort, he raised his hand to take a look.

"I've been meaning to ask," said Harry, "what's that thing around you wrist?"

Moody shook his hand to loosen the flesh beneath the bracelet. "Piece of lodestone. Known to have healing properties. Useful." He put his arm down and shut his eyes.

Harry watched him for a minute, and felt restless in the sudden silence. "Can…I get you anything? Water? Food?"

"In a minute," Moody replied, "Don't have much of an appetite right now." After a long pause, he said, "You did good, by the way."

"Huh?"

"You and Danny…you did well in getting us out of trouble and finding a place to hide out."

"Oh," Harry shook his head, smiling ruefully. "It was…it was Danny who did that. I didn't do anything at all."

Moody's magical eye swiveled towards him. "Danny?"

"Yeah. If you want to thank anyone, thank him. He saved your life." _And he called you family_, Harry mentally added. _I don't think he'd do that if you weren't knocked out._

"Tell me," Moody said quietly. "Tell me everything."

So Harry related to Moody the entire battle, how Danny showed up just in time and his battle with the Death Eaters, and how he carried Moody through the forest until they found this little hill. However, he purposely left out the incident with Irian. He didn't feel ready to tell anyone about that.

Moody nodded as Harry came to the end of the story. His face was expressionless, but every now and then Harry thought he saw a flash of approval in his eyes.

"So you see," concluded Harry, "I really didn't do much. It was Danny who saved us. It's pretty strange, but I imagine that if he didn't go around that gorge, he would have fallen into that trap with us." Abruptly, his eyes fell. "Actually…did you…did you hear what I was saying last night?

Moody nodded.

"I…guess I haven't done much good now, have I?" Harry went on. "I haven't done a lot lately except complain. I mean, I see you and Danny doing everything you can and getting hurt and all…I just feel useless." He picked at a piece of grass at his feet, unable to lift his gaze. He felt heavy inside, and wondered if, as of last night, he'd lost all of Moody's respect. It was a bit bewildering to realize he actually _wanted _that respect.

Moody was quiet for a long while. Then he shut his eyes and grunted, "Don't put yourself down."

Surprised, Harry raised his head.

"Don't put yourself down," Moody repeated. "Don't beat yourself up. It's good you know what you were doing wrong, but take it like a man and let it go. I think you should take a look at your arm and tell me if you haven't recently done something quite brave, by anyone's standards."

Harry turned his gaze down at the bandages that swathed his arm. "But this was different. I was fighting for my life—"

"And if you'd given up, if you'd cowered in some corner and let us do the fighting, we'd all be dead now or worse, wouldn't we? You ought to keep that in mind."

Harry did not know what to say. He had not acknowledged himself for that. "I…I suppose…" was his only reply.

Moody nodded again and said, "Tell me something—you ever thought of a career once you get out of Hogwarts?"

Harry was surprised by the question. "Why do you ask?"

Moody shrugged. "No crime to be curious."

Harry thought for a minute. He had considered some careers, but only one sprang to his mind with complete clarity. He had mentioned it to Professor McGonagall last school year, and his response felt natural and true: "I'm thinking about being an Auror."

"Ah," said Moody, and Harry realized he'd spoken out loud. "Interesting that you'd pick that."

"What do you mean?"

"I'd be doing you a disservice by telling you otherwise," Moody said. "Being an Auror's no High Tea on the balcony, boy. We live meaningful lives, not pretty ones." He took a deep breath, considering, the said, "Here. Name an Auror you know, apart from me."

Harry thought for a minute. He could only come up with one, actually. "Neville's father, Mr. Longbottom, is an Auror…."

"Frank? Frank's a good man, one of the best of us. His wife, too, Alice. I'll name you another: Amanda Dethory, currently still in Ministry employ. Then there's Lionel Bishop. He's Commander of the Order of the Phoenix, under Dumbledore's charge. These are all good, true Aurors. Know what they have in common?"

"Um…" Harry thought for a minute. "They're all Gryffindor?"

Moody's dry lips split into a grin. "I'll grant you that. Something to be proud of your House for. Now what else?""

"I don't know, then. What?"

Moody cast his eyes on him. "Each one of them's been injured. Each one of them's lost something over the course of their career. The Longbottoms lost their sanity. Dethory's lost one eye. Bishop's lost 'em both. These are extreme examples, yeah, but if you go down the line of the finest Aurors in history, you'll catch the pattern over and over. Each one of them's been hurt. Each one of them bears scars, some of the body, some not. And what for? Why did they suffer?

"So that other people can have the chance to live normal lives. You remember that, lad, if you're staying your course. Nothing worldy matters to an Auror: not fame, not money, not praise, because at any moment, he or she may have to surrender his life. More than medals, an Auror is known for his scars. He's known for what he's given up to live by his Creed."

They were looking at each other, and it seemed to Harry that Moody's vast array of injuries became more pronounced. Every patch of broken skin, every pale, jagged mark and missing chunk of flesh. More than medals, scars.

Harry looked back again at the bandages on his forearm. _I share something of that now_, he realized. Ten little markings on his arm. Unlike the one on his forehead, he earned these through an act of bravery he could truly claim as his own. Moody was right: he _had _done something incredibly courageous, he _had _saved all their lives. In these past two weeks alone he had sacrificed so much in order to protect everything he loved.

Now he felt an odd kinship towards the old man…and the Aurors, too. Of all things, sacrifice was one he could understand.

Danny's loud voice shook him from his musings.

"I've got scars myself, you know!" he said as he swaggered in, looking very proud of himself. Slung over one shoulder was a pair of hares he'd caught.

Moody favored him a disinterested glance. "Do you, now?"

Danny puffed out his chest. "I've got a blast mark on this shoulder, burn marks on my left hand, cuts on my stomach and two huge ones on each cheek of my buttocks."

"And which of those did you get when you _weren't_ learning to cook?"

Harry stifled a laugh. Danny glared at Moody as he put down the hares and took out his knife. "Keep that up and see if you'll get any of the stew I'm making."

"Right. And would you mind doing that somewhere else?"

Danny obliged him by moving away to hide his workmanship. Harry watched him prepare their meal with an interest that grew from the pit of his stomach. Some faraway part of his mind wanted to be disgusted at the bloody sight. Another simply smelled fresh meat and declared, _I got to have some of that_.

After skinning the hares and mincing the meat, Danny took out a pot from Moody's trunk and filled it water. He then set it on the heating stone and prodded it once with his wand. Harry felt a sudden gust as the air around them palpably warmed.

"I'm afraid we won't have a lot of seasoning for this," said Danny, pouring the meat into the pot. "All we've got in the trunk's some salt and garlic."

"You realize I need those ingredients to ward off vampires and evil spirits, don't you?" Moody said sardonically.

"How 'bout warding off hunger first?" Danny chopped up some garlic and added it into the stew, following it up with a pinch of salt.

"There," he said. "Rabbit stew for lunch. Meanwhile, let's talk about something important—like what are we going to do now? Moody, any ideas?"

"Is there another place we can get help?" Harry joined in, trying to forget the rumbling in his stomach. "Is there another Order outpost nearby?"

Moody sighed. "None that I know of."

"Well, maybe someone we can trust, then," offered Danny, who was enchanting a spoon to stir the stew by itself. "Someone with a house we can hide in. Then we'd just let Dumbledore know where we are and—"

Moody's magical eye rolled to look at him. "Even if we could find some nearby wizard who'd like to help, I wouldn't endanger them by staying under their roof."

"It's not like we're staying for the rest of the season. As long as they have an owl we can borrow…"

"No."

Danny stopped to glare at him. "Why the hell not?"

Moody was not looking at them anymore. He was staring up at the sunlight through the leaves. "That boy, Winterwake. He was under emotional control. Someone planted him there, to ambush us. I know only one person who operates that way. And I think he's waiting for us to make the mistake of looking for outside help." He fell into a pensive silence.

Harry looked at him in confusion, until something occurred to him.

"You mean Gallowbraid?"

Silence fell, and a dangerous chill seemed to emanate from Moody. The old man's eyes flicked towards Harry. "How do you know about him?"

There was something feral about his expression, and Harry felt inexplicably afraid. "I heard it from one of the Death Eaters," he replied. "He mentioned it to their leader when they captured us. He said Gallowbraid used some kind of magic to control Winterwake…"

"Mesmery?"

"Yeah." Harry fidgeted. "Who is he?"

Moody's reply was deadpan. "An old acquaintance."

"Well, why is he after us?"

This Moody did not answer. His brows knitted in deep thought, then he said, "No more questions. Leave me alone a bit. I need to think."

Something about his tone forbade argument. "C'mon, kid," said Danny, motioning to him. "The stew will take a while. Let's get some practice done."

They made for the exit through the gap, but Moody suddenly called out, "Wait."

They both turned to look at him. Moody had a pensive look on his face as he gazed at his godson. "You got a minute?"

Danny shrugged and instructed Harry, "Go on out and wait for me. Just don't wander off, okay?"

* * *

Harry waited for Danny out in the clearing. He though that Moody was going to tell Danny off for teaching him how to duel, and waited to hear raised voices. But before long, Danny reemerged. His face was a mask of bewilderment. 

"He thanked me," he muttered. "He actually _thanked_ me. For everything. I don't believe it."

Harry couldn't help laughing. "Oh, is that all?"

"What did you tell him?"

"Not much, just how you rescued us from the Death Eaters and saved his life."

Danny shook his head. "You must've turned it into some kind of heroic epic or something."

"Just the plain truth, Danny," Harry replied, smiling. "Maybe he just wanted to give you a break and say he appreciates what you did. Ever thought of that?"

Danny snorted, but it lacked derision. "Right, whatever. Wand up—we've work to do. Show me middle guard."

Harry fell into the stance, his wand in front of him. But Danny shook his head in disbelief. "What?" asked Harry.

"Your arm's too straight, you're gripping your wand too tightly, you're holding your head too low, and your feet are spaced too close together." Danny gently pushed his shoulder, and Harry nearly toppled. "See? You're off-balance. Start a fight like this and you're asking for trouble."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Then how am I supposed to do it? It's not my fault my professor was a complete idiot."

"Do it again and I'll show you."

Harry ran through the stances he knew—middle guard, high guard, and low guard—and each time Danny had something to correct and refine. "At the beginning of a duel," he lectured, "stance is everything. It disciplines your mind and makes your moves quick, balanced and efficient. You'll want to learn every one of the Six Defenses, because each of those stances allows you to do certain things easier."

It was a little later, when they were taking turns defending themselves with their Wandshields, when Harry remembered a question he wanted to ask. "So, who is this Gallowbraid?"

"A criminal Moody used to chase a long time ago," Danny answered. "Moody mentioned him to me a few times, but never told much. He's supposed to be really good. Terrifying was the word Moody once used, and Moody doesn't terrify easily."

Harry dissipated his Wandshield and hurled a Leg-Locker Curse at Danny. "Have you ever met him?"

Danny shook his head, deflecting the hex almost as an afterthought. "Nope, not once. I'd like to, though, and find out if I can beat him. Moody never could, you see, not in the many duels they've had."

Harry didn't like the thought of that. If Moody couldn't beat him, then the man must be hair-raising indeed. Before he could think further on this, however, another curse came straight for him. He barely had enough time to shout the incantation and catch it on his Wandshield.

"Why does he want us?" he asked.

"Two reasons. First, he's working for the Dark Lord, whom he has some kind of contract with. Second, he and Moody have some _very_ unresolved grudges."

At Harry's prompting, he continued. "He's a right foul bastard, Gallowbraid, an entirely different breed of bastard. Dark Wizards come and go, always trying to make a name for themselves. Gallowbraid doesn't even try, and that proves he's sharp. There isn't a shred of evidence linking him to a crime. Nobody can figure him out because nobody knows he really exists. Somehow someone else always takes the blame for his crimes. That's Gallowbraid's power…"

Danny twitched. Harry raised his Wandshield just in time to ward off another curse.

"Pretty good," Danny said. "You're getting better."

"And you're just getting sneakier," Harry replied. "You were saying about Gallowbraid's power?"

"Oh yeah. He's got the Jagan."

A pause. "Um, the what?" Harry asked.

Danny gave an impatient snort. "Haven't you ever heard of the Evil Eye? Bloody powerful artifact? Can make anyone it gazes at have incredibly realistic hallucinations?"

At Harry's confused stare, Danny explained. "There are these two artifacts, see, both of them eyes. First, the Jagan can make you dream of getting your heart's desire, or trap you in your worst nightmare. Second, the Wadjet, otherwise known as the All-Seeing Eye, does the opposite—it allows you to see things as they truly are. Get me?"

"Okay," said Harry, "and Gallowbraid has the Jagan?"

"It's a long story. Here's the abridged version: The Jagan was under the protection of Sanzenin the Sage in Japan while Orcus the Sphinx guarded the Wadjet in Egypt. Gallowbraid killed them both and stole each of their eyes."

"Both? Gallowbraid actually had _both_?"

"Yeah. Took out both his eyes and put those ones on. The Jagan allowed him to Mesmerize, or manipulate people through their emotions. Call it the feeling form of Imperius, if you will. Meanwhile, the Wadjet allowed him the ability to see through walls, disguises and illusions, making him impossible to sneak up on or trap. He was nearly unbeatable.

"According to Moody, Gallowbraid showed up in the 60s, nearly the same time as Lord Voldemort. He had been far subtler, though. First there was a rash of jewelry theft. Then bank thefts, all across the country. The Aurors always caught the perpetrators because they never ran, and while they swore that they were guilty as sin, they couldn't remember what they'd done with the money. Which led Moody to suspect that the people they caught were just stooges, that there was another figure running things from the sidelines. He finally managed to pry a description from one of the criminals: a tall, wiry man, bald pate, spoke a foreign accent, always wore dark glasses, and never introduced himself. Testimony eventually pointed Moody to a flat in Kensington, and that was where he first met Andros Gallowbraid."

"So Moody fought him, then?" asked Harry.

"Wasn't much of a fight. Gallowbraid immediately Mesmerized Moody and forced him to, uh, damage himself."

Harry peered at him curiously. "What do you mean by that?"

"Let's just say there's a reason Moody has a peg leg."

At Harry's horrified expression, Danny added, "Don't worry, Moody got back at him. See, Gallowbraid left him to bleed to death, but Moody managed to get help from backup. After he recovered, he started plotting for a way to capture Gallowbraid.

"He found out that Gallowbraid had this particular Chinese restaurant in London which he loved to visit whenever he was in town. Moody staked that place out for days. He finally got lucky one night when Gallowbraid strolled in. Moody snuck in through the back, found the stew Gallowbraid always ordered, and slipped some nightshade into it."

"He _poisoned _Gallowbraid?"

"It wasn't a lethal dose. Just enough to knock Gallowbraid down and keep him from using any of those powers of his. And it worked. Gallowbraid keeled over and Moody charged out of the kitchen to arrest him. Unfortunately, his enemy came prepared. He had a Port-Key built into one of his rings, and activated it just as Moody reached him. Gallowbraid escaped, but he left something behind. The Wadjet had been jarred loose from his head when he collapsed. Moody retrieved it, and later decided to put it to use. So that's where that magical eye of his came from."

"You're joking! That's the Wadjet?"

"You bet. Moody figured the only way he could beat Gallowbraid was to render his mind tricks useless. The two Eyes can't work well against each other, so that really levels the playing field when they duel."

"I can't believe Moody did all that. But…how come Gallowbraid's working for Voldemort?"

Danny shrugged. "Not even I know that. Moody figures the Dark Lord had some sort of Enslavement Charm binding Gallowbraid to him—I don't know, maybe losing the Wadjet dealt a real blow to his powers. In any case, Gallowbraid served as an agent of the Dark Lord up until the war ended one year later. After that, he fled the country. Now that the Dark Lord's returned, so's he." He paused, then added, "And I'm guessing he still wants his eye back."

* * *

They practiced some more, until the sweet aroma of the rabbit stew called them to camp. By then, even Moody was trying to sit up and sniffing appreciatively. 

"The cook goes first!" cried Danny, grabbing some wooden bowls from the trunk and handing them out. "Don't want to poison your stomachs if this thing turns out bad."

Watching as he raised the ladle to his lips, Harry didn't care if the stew tasted like rotten turnips. His guts were on the verge of declaring rebellion if he didn't fill them immediately. When Danny proclaimed it "bearable," Harry practically shoved his bowl into the other boy's hands.

The stew turned out to be brilliant, though Harry was too busy to say so. He wasn't sure if it was his own hunger that sharpened the taste for him, or that this was the first time he'd tasted anything other than nuts and raisins since he left on this journey. He emptied his bowl within a minute and went for seconds.

Danny sat Moody up and fed him spoonfuls, every now and then sipping from his own bowl. "We can't stay here and wait for the Order to come looking for us." Moody was saying. "We need to get ourselves someplace where Dumbledore can have an easier time finding us."

"Where did you have in mind?" asked Danny.

Moody wiped his mouth on his sleeve and said, "Dumbledore has a friend who's retired out here in the wilderness. Brilliant fellow, bit of a recluse. I think we can trust him, though. Name's Nicholas Flamel."

The name touched a chord in Harry's memory. "_Nicholas Flamel? _As in, Sorcerer's Stone Nicholas Flamel?

"Yep. He retreated out here in the woods with his wife to keep the rest of the world out of his business. I figure he can shelter us until Dumbledore comes, if we ask him nicely."

"I thought you didn't want to put anyone in danger," Danny interjected, "let alone some egg-head alchemist."

"Son. This is _Flamel _we're talking about. He isn't an alchemist. He's THE Alchemist. And the oldest living man in the world, if I'm not mistaken. You don't live that long and not pick up a thing or two about protecting yourself. He'll help us out, once we find out where he lives."

"You mean we don't?" asked Harry.

Moody shook his head. "I don't."

"Well, that's a first," said Danny.

"If you've got a better idea, let's hear it," Moody countered. "If not, I do remember Dumbledore mentioning that Flamel lives somewhere near Lake Mab. That's northeast from here. If we can get there, I bet we can find him easily enough."

He eyed each of them critically. "As much as possible, we can't let ourselves be seen. We can't stop to ask help from strangers. The Dark Army is using them to get to us. Things've gotten more dangerous than Dumbledore and I have imagined. We must be careful, now more than ever."

Danny nodded to Harry. "I've told him about Gallowbraid."

Moody's eyes flicked to Harry for a second, but he didn't seem to want to comment. "We'll fight him if we have to," was all he said. "Our first priority is to get to ourselves to safety."

Harry asked, "Can Nicholas Flamel really help us?"

"He's an old friend of Dumbledore and a living legend. I don't see why he can't, or won't. Don't worry, boy." He grinned at him. "I swear, I won't die until I find a way to get you back home."

They waited quietly together, till evening fell over their eyes like a dark curtain. To Harry it felt long in coming; time seemed to creep slowly here in the wilderness than anywhere else. The night wind came again, bearing with it the call of owls and creaking branches.

"Why don't we have a light?" Moody said in the gloom.

"You're the last person I'd think would ask that," Danny replied. "A fire can be seen from miles away, or overhead from a broom. We're trying to stay out of sight, remember?"

"I didn't ask for a bloody campfire. A candle would serve. Better than squatting around in the dark like a bunch of mushrooms."

Harry caught the sound of someone rummaging through the trunk, then a brilliant spark of light revealed Danny, candle in hand. He set it in the middle of the camp, on the dark stone.

"That's better," sighed Moody, sinking into his bedroll like a turtle into sand.

"Yeah, this isn't so bad," said Danny. "It's like a camping trip. Well, except for the matter of people trying to kill us and all."

Moody gave Harry a sidelong glance. "So you're learning how to duel."

"Yeah," said Harry. "I reckon I can be more useful if I know how to defend myself."

"I've no qualms about that. But learn when to use force and when to use wit. Learning to duel is no excuse to turn into some hex-happy hothead—"

"Oh, leave off, Moody," said Danny. "You're not his mother, you know."

"—And it remains to be seen whether or not your instructor will teach you anything of worth."

Harry grinned. "I try to learn in spite of him, sir."

"Keep at it, then." He turned to Danny. "And as for you, don't tire him out with too much practice. It's no use if neither of you have enough energy to fend off an ambush."

"Don't worry about it," said Danny, who was heating up the last of the stew. "He's stronger than he looks. Which reminds me, Robbie, you play any sport?"

"Yeah. I play a bit of Quid—"

Harry caught himself, then looked away. _No, not anymore I don't._

At Danny's puzzled look, Harry said, "I was going to say I play Quidditch. It's just that….I don't anymore."

"You don't?"

"I quit."

He looked even more puzzled. "Why? Weren't you any good?"

"I…like to think I was. I was a Seeker."

Danny gave no indication that he found that impressive. "You didn't enjoy it?" he asked, passing him a bowl of stew.

Harry thought back, and for a moment remembered the cold blast of wind out on the pitch, the exhilarating jolt as he leaped into the air to meet it. "For a while, very much."

"Then why'd you stop?"

Cedric's face floated before him, pale and lifeless. "It...it didn't seem worth it anymore."

"Huh. Lost too many games?"

"No, that's not it. My team did very well." Harry sipped his stew, feeling a keen discomfort at having to be forced to think about it. He wanted to steer the topic away to a less personal matter, but Danny seemed interested in pursuing his reasons.

"Then what is it? Professors saying it got in the way of your studies? Developed acrophobia? What?"

Moody, thankfully, sensed Harry's discomfort. "Leave 'im alone, Danny," he muttered. "People have their reasons. Not all of them need to be brought to light."

"I just find it strange, that's all," Danny replied.

"What's strange?" asked Harry.

"You're the first person I met who consciously gave up something he was good at."

His tone was neutral, conversational, but Harry felt stung. "Like I said, I've got my reasons."

"They must be strange reasons, then. I was born with a wand in my hand—I can't be anything but a Duelist. Moody's an Auror through and through, and whatever else you can say about that, he never stopped being an Auror for any reason. How do you think people get so far if they don't play to their strengths?"

Harry studiously kept his face turned away from them.

"Ah, whatever," Danny said after a while. "Not like it's a big loss, anyway."

It was Harry's turn to favor Danny a look. "What?"

"I don't get Quidditch," Danny continued. "What's the point? What's all the fuss about flying around with some balls?"

Harry surprised himself by feeling defensive. "That's not all that it's about! Quidditch is all about strategy and teamwork and nerve!"

Danny gave a little smirk. "Nerve, yeah, I'll give it that. That game takes a lot of balls. You try and throw a ball—"

"The Quaffle!"

"—through some hoops. Then you try to knock another player out with yet another ball—"

"A Bludger! It's called a Bludger!"

"I mean, if you have to knock someone senseless why not stick with the club? Then there's that business with that ball that looks like a mosquito—"

"The Snitch!" Harry seethed. "Didn't you watch any games?"

"A couple of times, but I'd always lose interest. Hey, just because you've got a bunch of people screaming at a stadium doesn't mean you've got a sport. Dueling—now there's a sport. I'll never understand why they outlawed it."

"Maybe it has to do with the fact that _dueling can get you killed_?"

"Not much different from flying around with a bunch of homicidal balls, is it? Well, that's a problem with wizards nowadays. If it can get you killed, it's a sport."

Harry gave up. Putting his empty bowl aside, he lay down on his bedroll and announced, "I'm going to bed. I don't have time to talk to complete nutcases."

"Nutcase, am I?" Danny returned. "You should see Gryffindors during a Quidditch match—there's nutty in living color. It's like you people turn into savages whenever the Quidditch comes into discussion."

Harry, who had shut his eyes, opened them again. "Wait a minute. _You people? _What do you mean you people? Aren't you from Gryffindor?"

Danny looked gravely insulted. "Gryffindor? Me? What made you think that?"

Harry didn't immediately answer. He just assumed Danny came from the same House as he did. "I…I dunno. I just thought…well, you seem brave enough to be— "

Danny's eyes blazed. "Just a minute here! You're implying that Ravenclaws can't be brave?"

"I'm not saying that," Harry hastily replied. "I'm just saying—wait. You're from _Ravenclaw_?"

"From _The Most Illustrious House of Ravenclaw_!"

Harry paused. "Oh."

"Oh what?"

"Nothing."

"That wasn't a nothing 'oh,'" said Danny, leaning forward. "You definitely meant something by that 'oh.'"

"I haven't the foggiest idea what you're going on about."

"You're saying while I fit in with Gryffindors, I don't fit in with Ravenclaws. That's what you're thinking, isn't it, you typecasting little—!"

"No, I'm not saying that! I was just a little surprised, okay?"

"Oh yes, you were surprised! You think I'm brave enough to be a Gryffindor but not smart enough to be in Ravenclaw. Well let me tell you something, Quafflehead: not everyone's intelligence resides in their brains." He snapped his fingers for emphasis. "Some people are physically intelligent, and I happen to be one of those. That's why the Sorting Hat put me in Ravenclaw. And who are you to argue with the Hat, anyway?"

"This conversation is completely preposterous," Moody suddenly announced. "I'm going to sleep." He pulled the blanket to his chin and turned away.

"What is it with you about Ravenclaw, anyway?" muttered Harry.

Danny sat up, palms held up in a nonchalant gesture. "I have every right to be proud of my House. Ravenclaws are renowned for their great skill and intellect. We take only the brightest and most gifted students—"

"How does that explain you, then?" said Moody from his side of the hollow.

"I happened to have my OWN genius, as I've mentioned before," said Danny. "That's why the Sorting Hat made it a point to put me in the right House, the House for people destined to be great. Look behind every major advance in wizarding history and you'll find a Ravenclaw behind it. Look for the most successful businesses in Britain and you'll find a Ravenclaw responsible. Face it, those who make it into my House come out on top: any time, any place they go to, not only do they survive, they thrive."

"They sure do," Harry retorted. "They thrive into stuck-up, nitpicky, ivory tower nerds."

Danny merely laughed. "O-ho! And I suppose you're saying Gryffindors are the epitome of humility and virtue?"

"I'm not saying that at all." Harry propped himself up on an elbow to glare at him. "I'm saying Ravenclaws don't rule the world like the way you paint them to."

"And Gryffindors do?"

"We do a lot better than you Ravenclaws, certainly."

"Really now? And what's so good about being in a House of rabid Quidditch geeks?"

Harry forced himself to recall some of Percy's words back when he first came to Gryffindor. "Gryffindor House has the bravest—"

"I know that already."

"Shut up! Gryffindors are capable of great things exactly because of that! They're the first to volunteer, the first to be leaders, the first to fight for the things they believe in. You say it's the Ravenclaws who make the plans, but I say it's the Gryffindors who lead the way and make things happen. Yeah, we're nutters when it comes to Quidditch, but it pays off in the end when our players make up some of the best Quidditch teams in Britain. What's more, Gryffindor House has produced the largest number of heroes in history." _Although for the life of me, _he thought,_ I can't recall one right now, except for my Dad. _He drew a breath, then decided to take a risk. "I hear the only Aurors worth mentioning come from Gryffindor!"

Moody's voice came up again. "Don't believe everything you hear."

Surprised, both Danny and Harry turned to the old man. Moody turned on his bed to face them. "_I _happen to be from Hufflepuff, and I'm good for a mention once in a while."

Danny gawked at him. "You? I always thought you were from Gryffindor!"

The Auror's eyebrows nearly vanished into his grizzled bangs. "Now _who's_ typecasting?

"Yeah, I come from Hufflepuff. I won't mince words—folks look at my House like it's the dumping ground for students who aren't brave, smart, or ambitious enough make anything of themselves. True, we've had our share of people who sink without a trace, but I don't really care. There's one thing Hufflepuff's taught me, and that's drudgery.

"Gryffindors can be brave when it comes to big things, but Hufflepuffs know how to be brave in little things. Ravenclaws know what to do, but not when to work. In Hufflepuff, when there's a job that needs doing, you shut up, put our head down, and do it. You learn to face your problems. You learn to solve them. And you learn not to give up when things get hairy and you're left holding the bag. That's how I did things back in my House. That's how I did things at the Ministry. That's how I do things in the Order. Through drudgery. In the long run, it doesn't matter so much if you're not bravest, the smartest, the most ambitious—they don't mean a thing if you can't be strong."

A period of silence followed, after which Danny said, "Well…since there are none present to extol the virtues of their House, I think we can safely assume that Slytherins are the scum of the earth."

Harry laughed out loud, and even Moody cracked a grin.

With a mean glint in his eyes, Danny turned to Harry and asked, "Hey, how many buckets of tears do Gryffindors bawl out when they lose a Quidditch match?"

"No more than Ravenclaws do when they get something below Exceeds Expectations on an exam!" Harry shot back, still laughing.

"And when is Gryffindor going to come up with a cheer that won't make rational people want to blow their brains out?"

"Just as soon as Ravenclaw figures out which part of a racing broom is up!" Harry countered.

"Oh, that's how you want to play it, then?" Chuckling, Danny sat up and said, "Here's a well-known story. In Hogwarts, there's a magical mirror that will eat anyone who tells a lie.

"A Ravenclaw goes up to the mirror and says, 'I think I'm not smart.' CHOMP! And the mirror ate him.

"A Slytherin faces the mirror and says, 'I think I'm not evil.' CHOMP! And the mirror ate him.

"A Gryffindor faces the mirror and says, 'I think…' CHOMP! And the mirror ate him."

"You're a riot," snickered Harry, trying to come up with a retaliation. Finally, he said, "What's the difference between a Slytherin and a Ravenclaw? At the very least, Slytherins know they're boring."

He was astonished when Moody gave an appreciative chuckle. Danny, however, fixed his godfather a mock glare. "Why you—you want a piece of me, old man?

"Three friends, a Gryffindor, a Ravenclaw, and a Hufflepuff, go on a hunting trip. The first night, the Gryffindor student comes back to the cabin with a big deer on his shoulders. The others ask him how he did it, and he coolly replies, 'I saw the tracks, I followed them, and bang! I got the deer!'

"The next night, the guy from Ravenclaw comes back with an even bigger deer. His story: 'I saw the tracks, I followed them, I made certain I was downwind, I took careful aim, and bang! I got the deer,'

"So the Hufflepuff decides to give it a go. But the next night, when he drags himself back to the cabin, his two companions find him bruised and bloody all over. 'What happened to you?' they ask.

"'Well,' replies the Hufflepuff, 'I saw the tracks, I followed the tracks, and bang! I got hit by the Hogwarts Express.'"

Moody was apparently ready with a reprisal.

"A patient met her Medi-wizard after undergoing a complete physical exam. The Medi-wizard said, 'I have some very grave news for you. You only have six months to live.'

"The patient asked, 'Oh no, what should I do?'

"The Medi-wizard replied, 'Marry a Ravenclaw.'

"'Will that make me live longer?' asked the patient.

"'No," said the Medi-wizard, "but it will SEEM longer."

A round of breathless laughter followed. It wasn't long before Moody and Danny had quickly turned their barbs against Slytherin.

"Why is the sky blue?" asked Danny.

"That was old when Dumbledore was young," Moody groused. But Danny ignored him.

"Why?" asked Harry.

"Because God is from Ravenclaw." Groans from all around him. "Why is the grass green?" he continued.

"Why?"

"Because Slytherins are meant to be stepped on."

"Not good enough!" cried Moody. "How do you keep a Slytherin from drowning?"

"Shoot him before he hits the water!" Danny guffawed. "And you're saying mine was old?"

The jokes and barbs rolled on, and Harry soon found himself out of breath with laughter. He lay back, a silly grin on his face, and watched the stars slip in and out of the silver-stained leaves above him. For a moment he forgot the danger. He forgot his homesickness and the hunger in his guts. He even forgot about the ominous sounds of the night forest around him, lost as they were amidst a young man's prattle and an old man's hacking laughter. These were the last sounds he heard before sleep finally claimed him.

_To be continued_

_Author's notes:_

_1. __This chapter's gone on long enough, so I'm keeping these notes short. In a way this chapter, along with the next, are the earliest ones I've conceived for TPATS. I've always wanted to write an episode featuring characters sitting around a campfire and…talking. Just that. It's funny because people are really more than what they say, and sometimes it shows. Anyway, I'm days away from finishing Chapter XIX. I'm eager to get that out—I'm having a blast putting it down on paper._

_2. __Author Neil Gaiman is visiting some our bookstores in a few weeks, and I'm terribly excited to see him up close. I've been reading his blog, and I'll put down one passage here: "Tell a story you care about about people you care about, and make the reader care about what happens to the people in the story. Let your message come second to your story. And when you're done, have a friend who's good at spelling and grammar and things like that proof-read it for you." That's the most comprehensive in-a-nutshell advice on writing I've ever heard. _

_3. __Thank you for your reviews. Writers are like little sailboats, and comments from their audience like gusts of wind that push them along to where they need to go. There's nothing quite as grand as a sail filled with the wind, and nothing quite a sad as one that stands empty._

_Chapter XIX: Sleight of Hand, Sleight of Mind_


	19. Sleight of Hand, Sleight of Mind

**The Phoenix and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter XIX: Sleight of Hand, Sleight of Mind**

_Endgame_, thought Remus. This was the endgame play. Sirius knew it too—Remus could see it from the hungry glint in his eyes.

The night wind whistled through the cedar branches as the two of them gazed out from the bushes, marking every detail of the scene before them. The remaining Death Eaters had camped at the site of what may have once been a rock quarry: a tall cliff of tan-colored rock, the sheared side of a mountain, towered over the handful of figures huddled near the tiny fire. Huge boulders, each at least twenty feet high, flanked the sides of the camp and formed a natural _cul-de-sac_. A sentry stood on each boulder, hoods facing the line of trees where the forest began again. Between this line and the camp lay some thirty paces of open grassland.

"They're clever, you have to hand them that," Remus muttered as he eyed the terrain. "We'll have a difficult time attacking them even from our higher ground, what with those rocks surrounding them. They're wary and well-entrenched."

"But they're also tired, dispirited, and vastly outnumbered," Sirius added, his smile flashing in the gloom.

He was right. The previous attack on the Death Eaters had been a complete success: as Sirius had predicted, the louts hadn't known what hit them. While the enemy had been descending a steep hill, the Order charged into the rear guard from behind, neutralizing them before most could even turn around. Then the Order swarmed down the hill to assault the main group.

To the Death Eaters' credit, their captain was quick. He immediately put up an organized defense, fending off the Order for a good while. It was clear, however, that the high ground had given the attackers the upper hand. Skirmishing to the edge of the woods, the Death Eater captain conjured a wall of ice to hold off the Order and called for a full retreat. They managed to flee, but as a shadow of their former strength. Only 10 Death Eaters remained.

This time, Sirius was not going to let them get away.

"You're certain you want to go through with this?" Remus asked.

Sirius nodded. "Their captain might have information on Harry's whereabouts. And even if he doesn't, I don't want him around to ambush us while we're combing the forest."

Despite his misgivings, Remus had to agree with him on one thing. Whoever he was, that Death Eater captain had proven himself a capable man, and had to be removed as a threat.

"Very well. When you're ready, Captain."

Sirius drew his wand, grinning. "I was born ready." He gave a whippoorwill cry, and answering whistles sounded from nearby. The bushes behind them parted as the Golems Riders emerged.

The Golems, stone giants that had been so instrumental in their first victory against the Dark Army, had undergone some redesigns. On Lyle's instructions, Mundungus had added flat surfaces on their upper backs to allow wizards to sit comfortably on their shoulders. The wizard riding the Golem would protect his mount from magical attacks, and the Golem's physical size and strength would defend its rider from close combat with the deadly Weepers. As proven by yesterday's battle, this combination was near unstoppable.

A Golem stopped beside Sirius, who clambered onto its back. "Mount up, Moony. The view up here's better when smashing through Death Eaters."

Remus shook his head. "I'd much rather run, if you don't mind. I've always felt clumsy riding those things."

"Suit yourself." Sirius looked around at his men. "Front line, form up!"

Shoulder to shoulder, the nine Golem riders formed a single line. The rest of the platoon gathered behind them. All turned their gazes at the sallow little fire of the enemy camp.

Abruptly, Sirius turned to Remus and said, "You know what I hate most about being a wanted man, Moony?"

Surprised, Remus said, "Er…constantly worn-out shoes?"

He shook his head. "Not being able to get a woman. Fifteen years of involuntary chastity—I've really seen hell."

Remus laughed, the tension leaving him for the moment. "Glad to see Azkaban hasn't killed the wencher in you!"

"It'll be the last bit of my sanity to go. So you can see why I'm eager to finish this war. I'm finding myself a girlfriend before I turn into a dried-up old prune."

"You have to _survive_ the war first, you know. I'd like you keep that in mind before we go charging into the fray again."

"Yes, sir," said Sirius, barking in laughter. "I'll keep a picture of a buxom beauty in my head as an incentive for staying alive."

He face grew serious again. "Now…let's finish this." He raised his hand, then made a chopping motion towards the enemy camp.

The Golems simultaneously broke into a jog, breaking through the underbrush and pushing past small trees. The earth trembled beneath their cadence. Remus let them charge ahead a few yards before giving his own command. With a wild battlecry, his group raised their wands and rushed down the hill.

The darkness and the vegetation blocked most of his view, and he could not see how the enemy was reacting. He could hear no cries of alarm or defiance, no blasts of spellfire. A sudden doubt filled him, and he pushed and clawed his way through the bushes until he finally broke through to the clearing.

The enemy had done nothing.

The silhouettes on the boulders stood motionless, watching the advancing force with an unsettling calm. Remus could not see their faces in their dark hoods. Were they readying their wands? Were they frozen with fear? Were they waiting for orders?

Even as he sprinted towards them, Remus stared hard at the shadowy figures, almost willing them to move. As they neared, the shadows seemed to shimmer and melt in the moon's wan light. He could not believe his eyes. The figures of the men were diminishing, leaving nothing in their wake but piles of rocks.

"HALT!" he cried, skidding to a stop. The men at his side slowed, the men at his back stumbling in an attempt not to run into him. But the Golem Riders charged on, Sirius's hair billowing like a black flag.

Remus filled his lungs and screamed, "TRAP! SIRIUS! IT'S A TRAP!"

Sirius turned his head to look at him. As if sensing his confusion, the Golem he was riding slowed down. Simultaneously, the campfire before them went out.

Something on the cliff wall above them caught Remus's eye. Bright crimson lines were appearing, burning their way along solid rock like traces of oil lit by fire. Remus recognized the rune even before it was halfway inscripted, and cried out again in warning.

But it was too late. The rune completed itself just as the Golem Riders reached the edge of the camp—and exploded.

A tremendous explosion engulfed the Riders' battlecries, and Remus watched in abject horror as the cliff collapsed. The shockwave struck him in the face and nearly knocked him down. He and his men threw themselves onto the ground as huge rocks tumbled into a cloud of dust, hurtling down onto the campsite with punishing force.

Some of the Golems reacted quickly. Grabbing their riders, they flung them over their heads and out of harm's way. Sirius's own Golem threw him off, right before the avalanche of rocks came down and shattered it to pieces.

The ground trembled for many moments. When Remus raised his head at last, there was nothing but dust and the rattle of falling pebbles.

Coughing, he picked himself up and ran to Sirius, who lay motionless some distance away.

"Sirius! Sirius, are you all right?"

His friend groaned in response, and Remus helped him sit up. The right side of his face bled from a cut cheek. His eyes had a dazed look, but his face was pale and blank with shock. "What…what the devil..."

They both turned to look at the shattered cliff. A huge pile of fallen rocks now lay where the campsite had been. Three survivors, flung from their mounts, lay like broken sticks at the edge of the debris. A severed stone hand rested some feet away. Beneath all that rubble lay six of their men and their entire Golem contingent.

Sirius uttered a curse. "Get Coven down here!" he shouted over his shoulder, then looked back at the debacle and cursed again. But Remus could find no words to capture the enormity of what he felt. How would they catch up with the enemy now, through this darkness? He stared at the fallen stones, hands tightening into fists, filled with outrage that they had at last been outwitted by a Death Eater.

* * *

"Something's coming." 

Surprised, Harry looked up from his breakfast at Danny. The elder boy stood at the gap of the encircling trees, restless gray eyes wary and watching. Harry followed his gaze to the forest's edge.

A rosy glow still lingered in the east. The day was beginning to warm, thinning the autumn mist that shrouded the surrounding trees. A soft breeze carried the moist scent of grass and damp earth to his nose. Somewhere high above them, a hawk shrilled at the morning sky.

Moody, who was chomping down on a fig, turned one eye on his godson and his magical eye on the silent Dark Detectors. Lazy curls of smoke drifted up from the pipe dangling from his mouth. "I hope it's a deer," he mused, smirking. "I could use some deer meat right about now."

Danny did not reply, not even to give a retort. That made Harry nervous. "How do you know someone's there?" he asked.

Danny did not take his eyes off of the horizon. "You live in the woods long enough, it starts telling you things." He clambered up to his usual vantage point among the branches.

The breeze picked up again, and dry leaves fell like rain on the far banks of the stream. Pieces of brittle bark pattered on the ground. Above the treetops, gray clouds rolled ponderously against the lightening sky. Some distance away, a flock of cawing ravens suddenly took to flight.

Danny said, "I think we should turn off the Dark Detectors."

The Auror's brows came together. "What are you talking about? How do you expect us to—"

"Turn them off. I know someone's coming, and I don't want the noise giving us away when they get in range."

Harry grabbed the nearest Detector, simultaneously asking himself why he wasn't doubting any of this. _It's his tone,_ he realized, fumbling with the switch. _The one he used two nights ago, when he grabbed me and force me to stop freaking out. Like he's asking, 'do you want to live through this or not?'"_

Perhaps for that same reason, Moody himself reached from his bedroll to turn off the other Detectors. It took only a moment to power them down, but just as his fingers reached for the last one, it blared out a sudden, shrill alarm.

Moody grabbed it by its thin neck, killing the noise. It sounded like nothing more than a startled little bird. Yet Harry felt his skin crawl, and all his blood seemed to drain down to somewhere near his feet.

Moody turned to face him. His real eye stared hard at him, but his magical eye whirled around like another alarm. "Get down on the ground," he whispered. "Get down and stay there."

Harry obeyed. Danny leaped down from his perch and flattened himself against a tree. Moody lay back down on his roll, but reached into a fold of his robe for his wand.

None of them spoke for a while. The forest had fallen eerily silent, save for the mad cawing of ravens.

"See anything?" Moody asked Danny.

Danny was peering from behind his cover. "Some shadows moving just at the edge of the clearing."

Moody scowled in concentration, his magical eye following his godson's gaze. "Ten of them."

_Ten. _Harry felt his blood quickening. Rising on his elbows, he cautiously peered over a rock. He saw no movement beyond the clearing. The forest looked as serene it had always been.

"I don't see them..."

"They're there all right." Danny edged to the side of the tree, eyeing the shadows. "Make no mistake. I hope you've got those fire wasps ready, Moody."

"It's not been a week yet," replied the Auror. "They've not fully regenerated."

"Guess we're doing this the hard way, then." Danny held his black wand with his right hand. The phantom wand slipped into his left with a simple, fluid motion.

"They're fanning out," Moody said, urgency sharpening his voice. "They're surrounding us, the bastards."

Harry's ears caught the distant sigh of rustling leaves. _Any other time I'd have thought it just the wind_, he mused, and he caught himself shuddering. He readied his wand, trying to look everywhere at once. Still he saw nothing, and wished he had his own version of Moody's Wadjet.

Danny's brows knitted together. "One of them's staying where he is, right across the brook."

"You can see him?" asked Harry.

"Barely. If I try anything, he'll just vanish into the leaves again." He paused, then added. "He's looking right at me."

"Damn it." Moody's eye was whirling like a tornado. "Right, we've still got cover and the higher ground. We'll spread out and defend all sides of our camp. If they so much as stick their noses out they'll lose them."

"Why haven't they attacked yet?" wondered Harry. It wasn't like the Death Eaters to delay. "They know we're here…what are they waiting for?"

"They're waiting for this guy to give the order, that's what," Danny replied, still staring at bushes. "Must be their leader."

"Then we wait, too," Moody concluded, dragging himself closer to the edge of the hollow. His hard gaze rested on Harry. "Use what you learned, boy," he said. "They'll give you no mercy and no quarter, so don't do them any favors. Fight, and if you get the chance, run for it. You hear me?"

Harry returned his look and nodded once. But inside he swore he was not going to run and abandon these men. Not after all they had gone through.

Moody seemed to read this in his eyes. "Don't be stupid. We're doing our job so you can do yours."

"I'm not about to leave you here to die."

"You guys," Danny chuckled, "nobody talk about dying, okay? We aren't even done with breakfast yet."

The minutes dragged on. Harry listened, but it seemed his eardrums had ceased to do anything useful, other than inform him how loud his heartbeat and how tense the thrumming of the muscles in his arms were. Three against ten…

_Stop it_. He shook his head angrily. He'd come close to death more times these past few days than all his four years in Hogwarts—he couldn't have been led so far only to meet his end here. Ron and Hermione and Ginny flashed through his mind, and he swore he would see their faces again.

The soft rustle of leaves made him jump. Moody's face clenched in warning. Danny raised his wands.

"Looks like someone wants to parlay," he said.

Harry raised his head just enough to gaze over the hollow's edge. A man was indeed walking out into the clearing. He drew his wand as he approached the stream and silently pointed it at the water. It froze into a bridge of ice, and his pace neither quickened nor slowed as he crossed it.

Harry sucked in a breath as the intruder, who wore neither mask nor hood, neared them. The resemblance was so strong, he thought Lucius Malfoy himself had come to get him. But this man was a full head taller than Malfoy, his young features stronger and more angular. His black robe and cloak could not completely conceal the power of his muscular body. The sun flashed on bleach-white hair; some strands jutted down his forehead like fangs. His thin lips were a staid line, his eyes as sleek as swords.

It was these ruthless eyes that arrested Harry. Whereas Malfoy reeked of deceit and scathing arrogance, this man possessed a fearsome, murderous air. He could not imagine weakness or mercy in that gaze; the Death Eater merely glanced at him and he felt like a hare in a hawk's shadow.

The man stopped a few paces away from the stream, holstered his wand, and simply stood there, a dark tower rising amidst the green of the wood and the golden sunbeams. His voice carried well in the crisp morning air: "Well met."

None of them returned the greeting.

"I've been searching for you for some small time now," the Death Eater went on. "You've done well in hiding yourselves, but this time your fortune fails you."

"You been lookin' for us?" Danny called back in a loutish voice. "We're just a couple of campers out for a bit of sun before the winter rolls in. You wanna beer or something?"

"Do not waste time on pretense. The Dark Lord has commanded me to bring you to Onyx Isle. He has expressed his desire to bring you in alive, at least for now."

Moody whispered to Danny. "Lure him closer, then pick him off."

"He won't fall for it," Danny whispered back. "He stopped walking just one step short of my spell range. This guy knows what he's doing." Focusing back to the man, he shouted, "Who the hell are you, anyway?"

The Death Eater bowed, not too deeply. "Magnus Aragon, Captain of the Onyx Command."

"Well, Captain, you seem to have the drop on us. I thought you'd get right down to business, not stand around wasting words."

"Indeed. I have reasons for wanting words with you. I seek the one responsible for my comrades' defeat near the Deceiver's Fall."

Danny's eyes flicked to Harry once, then said, "You'd have to speak to all of us, then. We all pitched in one way or another."

"I need speak to only one man," he replied. "I want to propose a deal."

The three of them stared at each other in confusion. "What the hell..." muttered Danny, then shouted, "What are you talking about?"

"I have nine men with me. Formerly they numbered nineteen, but some time ago we ran afoul of your friends from the Order of the Phoenix. We have since disposed of them, but currently my force has been left at somewhat of a disadvantage."

"You have my sympathies."

"We know there are three of you. One of you is the famed Auror, Alastor Moody. The other is a Duelist of no mean skill. Even outnumbering you three to one, I foresee a difficult battle."

"Pardon me, friend, is that a note of fear in your voice?"

The Death Eater ignored his remark. "I have orders to bring you in for questioning. My plan was to surround you with greater numbers, forcing you to surrender, and thus ensuring your safety. But as there are only ten of us, you will no doubt have impetus to fight. If we do fight, I stand to lose more men—something I can ill afford to do at this time. Worse, there is no assurance that any of you will survive the encounter, which in turn jeopardizes my mission."

"There's a cheery thought. So what do you propose?"

"A duel."

Surprised, Harry lifted his gaze to Danny. Moody's face was filled with suspicion.

But Danny merely said, "What are your terms?"

"They are simple enough," Magnus replied. "I seek a duel with the one who defeated my men. We shall abide by formal rules. If I should win, then your side must give up your wands and surrender peacefully. If you should win,"—the meanest hint of a smile on his face—"then I promise that my Death Eaters will leave you unmolested for a period of three days. What do you say to that?'

Danny gave a derisive snort before replying, "Sounds like you have more to gain out of this deal of yours than we do!"

"It doesn't bloody matter if he gets more out of it," Moody hissed. "It's a damn trap. Just lure them into range and we'll take them out."

"They outnumber us, Moody," Danny muttered back, "and you're in no shape to fight. You really have to try and remember that, now."

Magnus spoke again. "Perhaps I had misjudged you. I thought your kind would jump at the chance to avoid much of the unpleasantness of battle and bloodshed. A duel between equals would ensure that only one need die today. And should you prove victorious, three days is a long time for a group of resourceful men to find help or sanctuary. In any case, I have stated my terms and I shall abide by them alone. What is your answer?"

"And how do I know you'll even keep your bargain?" Danny shouted back. "What's the worth of a Death Eater's word these days?"

Magnus folded his arms, and Harry knew they had come to the end of the discussion.

"I do not speak merely as a Death Eater," Magnus replied. "I speak as a Duelist. If that does not satisfy you, nothing will. Let us put an end to this pointless discussion if you do not feel equal to the challenge. My men are more than willing to take you by force. Is that your wish?"

Harry's eyes switched from Magnus to Danny. There was a hardened look on Danny's face that Harry found awfully familiar, and he felt compelled to tell him, "Don't take it. He's trying to bait you."

But Danny's words were for Magnus. "Fine, then. I agree to your terms."

Moody made an unidentifiable sound, but his outrage was palpable. The Death Eater captain drew himself to his full height and called out, "I, Magnus Thybalt Aragon, challenge you to a duel!"

"I, Danny Jahred Oaks, accept your challenge!"

"As a matter of honor, I hereby command all who serve under me not to interfere with our battle. Prepare yourself, Mr. Oaks." Magnus turned and retreated a little towards the stream.

Danny sighed and turned around. Apparently he knew what to expect. Moody was glaring at him with both eyes, his mouth a grim, twisting line.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? What were you thinking? _Were _you thinking, you nincompoop?"

Danny replied, "I was thinking of preventing a massacre. Preventing massacres is something you Aurors do, right?"

"_You're _going to get massacred, ever thought of that? If you think you can take him, you're dreaming. Look at him! He's built like an ox!"

Danny's brow twitched with impatience. "This is a magic duel, grampa, not a brawl. I can handle myself."

"You think we're in some kind of arena? Last I looked, we were out of the Dark Ages!"

"Tell that to the Death Eaters. Besides, what do you think our chances are if we don't take this deal?"

_Not good_, Harry conceded. That indeed was why Danny said yes, but Harry now realized there was more to that. He saw that slight change in Danny's face when Magnus had said he was a Duelist, like some sort of coded message was telegraphed between them. It came to him a second later. He'd seen that look cross Oliver Wood's face whenever he shook hands with the opposing Quidditch team before a match. It was the hungry look of a fanatic, a competitor.

Harry said, "Danny, don't do this. You're going to get yourself killed."

"Listen to the lad!" Moody growled. "He's got more sense in his head than you."

Danny flashed a smile. "Have a little faith in me, kid. He may be bigger, but I'm faster. He can't possibly outmaneuver me. I'll be fine, you'll see." His smile broadened. "Keep your eyes open during the duel. Maybe you'll learn something. And keep this for me." He produced his black wand and handed it to Harry. "I'll be using my other one."

Harry vigorously shook his head. "Think about it a moment. Even if you win, you can't seriously believe the Death Eaters are going to keep their end of the bargain. They're not going to leave us alone. Voldemort won't let them."

Danny paused. "Captain Aragon gave his word as a Duelist," he replied. "That's not something given lightly."

Moody fixed him a look. "And you believe him?"

"Let me put it this way. If he called you out, what would you say?"

They stared silently at each other for a minute. Then Danny knelt to tighten the laces of his boots. Moody, still gazing at him, said, "You're insane. You're flaming mad, you know that?"

Danny laughed. "You never fail to remind me."

"Your best bet is to outflank him. Tough guys like that like to defend their front, but tend to leave their sides open."

"Okay. Got it."

"Don't get too close. He'll crack open your head like a quail egg."

"That's...not allowed in a formal duel."

"Forget rules. Rules are paper wands on the battlefield. If you're having trouble, try and lure him into the stream."

"_Rising From Water_? I'll keep that in mind."

Moody took a deep breath, grasped his godson's shoulder, and said, "_Quando omni flunkus moritatus_."

Danny laughed again. "_Tu stupidus es_." Then he stood up and with a leap, skidded down the slope of the hill to meet his challenger.

Harry turned to Moody, who had a grim little smile on his face, and quietly asked, "What did you tell him?"

The old man gave a rueful shake of his head. "I said, 'If all else fails, play dead.' You can tell what he made of _that_."

* * *

Danny rode the slope to the bottom of the hill, where he stopped in a crouch. While he was on his way down, the Death Eater had closed the distance between them. Instinctively, Danny raised his phantom wand, but Magnus did not seem interested in conflict just yet. 

"You've never killed," he said.

Danny blinked. "What?"

"You've never killed before. I can tell."

His words unsettled Danny, as did the cold look floating in the Death Eater's glacier blue eyes. "How do you figure that?" he asked, rising from his crouch.

"It's not in your eyes," said Magnus. "It's not in your gait, nor in the way you hold yourself. Veterans of the battlefield carry an air of deathlust about them. You have none. One might thing you were entering a game rather than a duel."

"Maybe you're right," Danny said coldly. "Maybe this is just a game to me. So if I were you, I'd stop worrying about my opponent and start worrying about myself." His lips curved into a sharp smile. "Killer or not, I'm here to win"

. An answering trace of a smile appeared on the Death Eater's thin lips. "Indeed." Magnus turned and walked towards the center of the clearing. Danny followed him.

"You have been a Duelist long, Mr. Oaks?" asked Magnus.

"Is there a prize if I answer your questions right?"

"A warrior does not hide his background. He treasures his name and achievements, which is why he introduces himself before a battle."

Danny decided he was right. "I've apprenticed for four years under a master. I've been dueling eight years before that."

Magnus nodded in acknowledgement. "For myself, I have apprenticed three years. Prior to that, ten years of self-study."

"You've had some formal wand schooling, then?"

"I am of the Crissaegrim School. And yourself?"

_Crissaegrim_. Danny was duly impressed. The Crissaegrim School was an elite style, rarely practiced and even more rarely mastered. Based heavily on ice magic, its complicated blend of defensive techniques and sudden, devastating attacks would make for an interesting challenge.

Masking his anticipation, Danny replied, "I started with Seagull, but it was too soft for me. After some time I switched to Moonshadow, and then on to Hurricane."

Magnus nodded in acknowledgment. "Hurricane. An excellent choice, though I myself find its techniques too…risky for my taste. You are, I take it, a mercenary?"

"Yeah. Been one for three years. And you've, ah, been a Death Eater long?"

"Formally, for a year and a half. But I have been in the Dark Lord's service for far longer."

"You have a lousy taste in bosses."

"The work is not without rewards. Or a share of true power. Perhaps you will understand that, once our duel is done."

They came to a halt at the center of the clearing, standing twelve paces apart. A wind set the grasses stirring, and some dry leaves spun about on little eddies of air. Danny ignored these, focused on nothing but the man standing opposite him. In his hand, the phantom wand gleamed like a shaft of moonlight.

"Ready," said Magnus.

"Ready," answered Danny. After a moment, he said, "You know, I'm a little impressed to find a Death Eater who gives a damn about the etiquette of dueling."

"We are not all of us barbarians," replied Magnus. "Dueling is a hallowed art, and must be accorded the respect it deserves. That is the noble way."

"The noble art of killing, you mean."

"If it pleases you. It is a warrior's pride to face an opponent on equal ground, to kill or be killed by him. We are a different breed, you and I. We find ourselves in the purity of battle, something no one now understands. Perhaps we were born in the wrong century."

Danny smiled at this. "I reckon you're right." Then he raised his wand to chest height, leveled before him. Magnus raised his overhead. The duel began.

Danny slid his foot forward, maximizing his distance without entering his opponent's range. He would not do that just yet, not until he could spot an opportunity to penetrate Magnus's defense. Perhaps he could be tricked, he thought. Yes, start off with something basic and make him think he's fighting an amateur, then take him when he least expects it.

Danny waited for his chance. Then, as his opponent blinked in the early morning light, he made his move.

In a blur of movement he sprinted left, keeping his wand leveled at Magnus. Just as he hoped, Magnus broke into a parallel run to protect his flank. Veering a little to his right, Danny entered into spell range and readied himself.

He made his first attack as the Death Eater matched his speed: spinning the phantom wand in his hand, he mindcasted a Full-Body Bind Spell. Magnus conjured up a Wandshield to block it. Danny hurled a Blinding Hex next, and it too shattered against that impregnable magical screen. Danny followed up his attack with a Stunning Spell. But just before the Stunner reached the Death Eater's Wandshield, Danny lunged to his right with a sudden twist of his feet.

It was a simple technique, really, _Striking the Corners_. The opponent, too busy with blocking the curse, would charge on, unmindful that he was leaving an open shot at his rear. Danny fired a Disarming Curse aimed for the back of Magnus's shoulder. One shot, he thought, and it'll all be over.

He did not expect Magnus to spin. Skidding hard, the Death Eater dropped to one knee and swung his Wandshield all around to his back. Danny recognized it: Crissaegrim School technique, _Dragon's Tail_. The Wandshield flashed gold as he countered the Disarming Curse and knocked it back at an angle—right into Danny's path.

On instinct, Danny curled his body as he landed, rolling into as small a target as he could. Blazing heat seared into the side of his arm—it was not quite painful, but it made him cry out in surprise.

Rolling to his feet, he summoned his own Wandshield—just in time to catch a swarm of curses which nearly knocked him back down. He fell back, fighting for his balance. Through his Wandshield Danny could see Magnus regaining his feet, steadying his wand arm with the other as he fired in a relentless chain.

_Have to regain control_. Danny concentrated, struggling to find the rhythm of the attack. He jigged left and right, ruining Magnus's aim. Just before the next shot reached him, Danny dissolved his Wandshield, lunged beneath the curse, and fired at Magnus's feet. The Death Eater instantly threw himself to the side and rolled away. Landing heavily on his front, Danny pushed himself onto his feet and took aim.

But he was too late. Magnus stood out of spell range, wand held aloft. From this distance, all they could exchange were stares.

Gingerly, Danny touched his fingers his right arm. It burned where is own curse grazed him. A flesh wound, but a wound nonetheless.

"Barely credible, Oaks," Magnus said from across the meadow. "Do you think we're practicing? I expected better than these little feints."

Danny casually replied, "Do you smell something burning?"

Magnus stiffened, then looked down at his feet. A plume of smoke was rising from the edge of his cloak, where a little fire had begun. Dissipating his Wandshield, he put out the flames with a blast of freezing air.

"Touché, Oaks," he said. "Shall we begin again?"

"Whenever you're ready."

* * *

Harry heard Moody groan beside him. "Not a minute into it and already he's injured!" 

"He's fine," Harry retorted, wiping the sweat from his brow. "It's just a scratch. It won't matter, you'll see." Except that it did matter, as Harry well knew. Even a small injury could prove to be a moment's distraction in the high-speed game of Quidditch. What more in a duel, where that moment could be fatal?

Danny and Magnus had entered into stances again. Danny held his wand over his head. Harry recognized the Guard of the Hawk, one of the Six Defences Danny had taught him the day before. Magnus countered by keeping his wand stretched out horizontally before him, in Iron Gate. But for many minutes following this, neither man moved.

Harry found the silence unnerving. "What's going on?" he whispered to Moody. "Why aren't they attacking?"

Moody lay against the curve of the hollow, watching the duel through his magical eye. "They've the measure of each other now," he replied. "No more foolish risks. Combat curses have an effective range of twenty yards, and they're standing one step away from each other's spell range. Once you step into that circle, it's life and death."

Now Harry saw it. "They're waiting it out, trying to bait each other …"

Moody nodded. "First person to give in, loses."

_They'll be doing nothing but watching each other, _thought Harry,_ for however long it takes_. He could not imagine himself undergoing such torturous waiting. _All in the nerves_, he thought, wiping his brow again. A game of nerves. He hoped Danny had them in spades.

* * *

At the moment, Danny was doing all he could to study his enemy. 

The Crissaegrim School Magnus used was surely no cakewalk, and despite his size the Death Eater moved with the fluent grace of a master. But Danny had three Schools under his employ: the powerful strikes of Hurricane, the Moonshadow defenses, the surprise attacks of Seagull. Timing was the vital thing. Because their spellwork was silent, Danny had to wait for that telltale movement of the wand that would betray Magnus's next move. Only then could he decide: dodge, block, or countercurse.

But Magnus was not making it easy. For a long time, it became a game of reading stances. Each time Magnus set one, Danny would attempt to predict all the moves he could possibly make from that stance. But by the time he could respond by, say, switching to the Arrowhead guard, Magnus would react by keeping his wand to his left in True Cross. And if Danny should respond by reversing his grip into Lower Snake? Magnus would hold his wand straight forward into Diamond Lance, quick as you please. Then they would repeat the cycle over again, like sailors signaling to each other from across the water.

The sun rose higher in the east, and a gust of wind sent leaves swirling down towards their battleground. Danny's field of vision shrank down to the dark figure of his enemy. Beads of sweat collected on his forehead, yet he dare not break his concentration by wiping them away. How long had it been? Half an hour? More?

Across from him, Magnus had entered Grand Torch, the wand held aloft to his side and pointed up. Danny crouched into Bastard Cross, his wand held his left as if he were drawing a sword. He would wait, wait until his arms ached and his legs collapsed from the strain. He would not lose to Magnus in a game of patience.

Magnus broke it first.

A twirl of his wand—the tip flashed a bright blue—and he lunged forward. Danny's response was instantaneous: he drew his wand in a wide arc, flinging a curse, then allowed the swing of his arm to carry him into a spin. Magnus's curse missed him him by inches; he felt the heat of his curse scorch his back. When it passed him completely, Danny turned full circle and launched a second curse. But to his chagrin, Magnus was ready for him, soaking up the attack with his Wandshield.

"Moonshadow School, _Twin Circles_," said the Death Eater. "Your timing was brilliant, but you were a little slow with the follow-up."

Gritting his teeth, Danny fired another curse and sprinted forward, dodging from one side to the other to mess up Magnus's aim. Long-distance combat was useless against this guy; he would try things up close.

The Death Eater calmly pointed his wand on the dewy grass before him, and a jagged wall of ice shot up from the ground. Danny swore as Magnus ducked behind it and fired at him from around its edge.

Out in the open, Danny had no room to hide. He dodged left and right, leaping and rolling, doing anything to avoid the curses flung at him. Finding a pause in the Death Eater's attack, he turned and fired at the wall. The ice splintered but did not give. Magnus merely smiled and returned fire, and it turned once more into a dodging game.

Finally, Danny had enough. Sprinting hard to his right, he raised his wand straight up overhead, his other hand steadying his wrist. Energy crackled as a ball of lightning appeared on the tip of his wand; the heat came off in waves, searing the top of his head. With a cry, he flung it at Magnus, who ducked behind his shield of ice.

The lightning sphere struck the barrier and detonated like a bomb. The ice wall disintegrated into tiny, spinning fragments. Through the steam, Danny saw Magnus hurled backwards by the force of the explosion. But the Death Eater lashed out with his wand, and several shards of glittering ice reversed direction and flew straight at Danny. Danny leaped back, simultaneously bringing down his wand. A sheet of lightning came down in a cataract, scattering the daggers of ice in its wake.

Breathing hard, the two combatants watched each other again. Even from his distance, Danny could see the blood dripping down from the cut on Magnus's cheek. The Death Eater glared back, his lip curled into a sneer. "Hurricane School, _Lightning Orb._ So this is how a mercenary fights: chaotic and undisciplined, mixing Schools like a man mixes liquor. You shame your teachers with such heresy."

Danny shrugged. "Meh. Sticks and stones, pal. I use whatever works. And if your purist style is so great, how come I'm still alive, eh?"

"Yes," seethed Magnus. "Indeed, you live. I intend to remedy that…NOW."

There was a thunderous CRACK! as Magnus suddenly vanished. Danny's eyes bulged—he had not expected that, not within the Black Barrier!

There was no time to think or turn or defend himself. As the second CRACK! sounded behind him, he brought up his phantom wand and stabbed it deep into his chest.

* * *

Harry cried out as Magnus reappeared a few feet behind Danny. Danny did not even have a chance to turn around—Magnus raised his wand and shot him in the back. A staccato blast rang through the air, and Danny staggered forward, gasping in pain. 

But he did not fall. A second later, Harry saw why.

A brilliant silver Wandshield protected Danny's back, radiating from a wandtip protruding from between his shoulder blades. Magnus retreated a few steps as Danny turned and extracted the wand from his chest.

Moody cursed. "Danny!" he shouted. "That Death Eater must have a Ministry Apparation Pass! The Black Barrier won't stop him!"

Danny nodded to show he'd heard.

"Interesting, this phantom wand of yours," Harry heard Magnus say. "I have not seen one used for a long time. Not exactly adhering to dueling regulations, is it?"

"Who are _you_ to talk?" replied Danny. "You're the one with the Apparation Pass."

"True. But it is a little late to reset terms and conditions. To each his own, then?"

"I've no problem with that." Danny held his wand high again. "I'll win no matter what little tricks you use."

"It's not fair!" shouted Harry, as the two combatants leaped into the fray once more. "We can't let him get away with that, Apparating in a duel! We have to stop the fight!"

"No good," Moody replied. "They won't let you. They're too far into it to stop." He paused, his magical eye spinning in a slow circle. "Besides, we've got problems of our own."

"What do you mean?"

The Auror turned his real eye on him. "The other Death Eaters. They're creeping up on us. All directions."

It took a moment for the realization to sink in, and for the fear to well up in Harry's chest. He looked around wildly, but of course saw nothing through the surrounding barrier of trees.

"They had this planned all along!" he said angrily. "The entire duel was just a set-up to separate us!"

Moody was already treating this as a foregone conclusion. Pulling his trunk close, he said, "_Five!_" and the lid popped open. Moody reached inside and pulled out what looked like a metal ball the size of a fist, which he handed to Harry.

"Careful with that," said the old man. "It's a Snooze Grenade. Got enough pixie dust in there to knock you out for a day. When they close in, we'll lob a couple. We won't get them all, but between us we can take out anyone still standing."

Harry gripped the grenade uncertainly in his hands. If they were lucky, he thought, they might take out half of the oncoming Death Eaters. But that would mean four or five left to deal with—still far too risky. They might not succeed.

"How many of these grenades do you have?" Harry suddenly asked.

Moody took one for himself and replied, "Twelve, including ones we're holding.

"Are the Death Eaters close?"

"They'll be here in twenty paces." Moody met his gaze. "You got a brainstorm or something?"

Harry leaned close. "As a matter of fact…"

* * *

"What's it like living as a mercenary, Oaks?" 

The two of them were circling each other rapidly, Wandshields up, trading one direction for another as they sought to pierce the other's flank.

"What's it like living without purpose?" Magnus went on. "Do you enjoy being so rootless? Do you value your life so little that you would court death for money?"

_Trying to distract me_, thought Danny. _Well, two can play that game_. "I don't mind sticking my neck out for money. I happen to have a knack for cheating death. Just ask your comrades near the cliff, if they're in any shape to answer."

Round and round, they went, faster, then slower, clockwise, counter-clockwise, struggling to find a chink in the other's defense. When neither gave ground, they came to a halt, then broke into a parallel run.

"You left them alive," Magnus said, hurling a jet of flame from his wand. "Every one, save for Irian, and that was obviously not your handiwork. Even now, you hesitate to use most lethal curses. Why?"

Danny vaulted forward to avoid the bolt and retaliated with a Leg-Locker curse. "I don't need any of that to deal with the likes of you."

"You're a fool." Magnus's Wandshield flashed gold as he countered. "You think I'll give you quarter?"

Danny ducked beneath the reflected curse. "I don't expect you to, and that's fine with me."

Magnus laughed at this. "You put your life on the line for money. You are willing to die but hesitate to take life. And you call yourself a Duelist, Oaks?"

"I'm no murderer, Aragon."

Magnus's grin was wide with malice. "To be a Duelist is to be a murderer. You think Wand Schools are for play? Crissaegrim, Hurricane, Nilsaber, Infernia—all Schools have the same objective: to kill as many enemies as one can in as little time possible."

"I win by my terms, not yours. Killing's the mark of the amateur."

The grin vanished from the Death Eater's face. "I will NOT tolerate this cowardice. You are an affront to me if you hold back your skill."

Danny smirked back at him. "I care, Aragon. I really do."

They had reached the banks of the stream and had no choice but to skid to a halt.

"Very well, then," said Magnus. "I'll MAKE you use a lethal curse."

He grew quite still for a long moment, the look in his eyes turning inwards as if he were retreating into some inner world. Then his wand rose, began a series of complex, spiraling movements. _This is new_, thought Danny. Suddenly cautious, he dropped to a crouch.

The twisting pattern of Magnus's wand increased in speed, becoming more erratic. Danny could not figure it out—perhaps this was some kind of Crissaegrim trick? Then a splash from the stream drew his attention. For a moment he thought it was just a fish jumping, but he was wrong. It was _water_. A huge gout of water, leaping out from the stream as if attracted by Magnus's hands. Then, as the Death Eater passed his wand over it, it froze into a sharp, double-edged blade of ice.

_Aw, hell. _Danny raised his wand as more jets of water leaped from the stream, to be shaped into giant, floating blades. In a few moments, eight blades of solid ice, each as long as a man and nearly as thick, radiated from where the Death Eater stood.

Magnus's face was strained, as if he were bodily bearing the weight of his arsenal. He began a slow spin of his wand over his head, as if whirling a mace. The dense blades followed his movement, orbiting around him in two layers. As he spun his wand faster, the blades chopped through the air, leaving a fine, chilly mist.

Danny saw Magnus's smile through the screen of whirling blades. "Crissaegrim Grand Art, _Octavian's Ring,_" said the Death Eater. "What do you say now, Oaks? Within the space of this ring, I am untouchable."

A low whine filled the air as the blades spun faster still. Danny squinted and pushed back at the cold gust of wind. Spinning his wand with his wrist, he fired a Blasting spell, hoping to breach that barrier of ice. The curse bounced off the ring of blades without even leaving a scratch.

Danny's instinct screamed just then. He threw himself onto the ground as two blades from the upper ring darted out of their orbits. The force of their passage pressed against his back—if he had not ducked, he would have been chopped in half.

The blades instantly retracted to their original paths, but Danny was no fool to wait—he pushed himself to his feet and leaped back, just as two other blades from the lower ring darted out, missing his knees by scant inches.

Danny backed away, but Magnus pursued. The Death Eater wove his wand into faster, more intricate patterns. The circling blades rearranged themselves, merging into undulating, impossible orbits. Their speed increased, until the blade barrier turned into a freezing tornado and Magnus was just a dark silhouette within its misty blur.

Danny knew if he stopped moving, if he let the Death Eater catch up, another pair of blades would lash out of their paths—and at the speed they were going, he would not even have time to blink before they tore him to pieces.

Steadying himself against the freezing wind, Danny bounded several feet backwards and crouched low, his wand pointing at the ground. He mustered the will to conjure a Force spell, but did not mindcast the incantation just yet. No—he let the magic continue to build, it would take only a few moments. In those moments his mind caught up to what his hands planned to do.

One: That fancy _Octavian's Ring _technique must require a tremendous amount of concentration to maintain. Consequently, its caster would need several seconds to detach himself from it, should he wish to do so.

Two: The barrier was shaped as a ring. Every ring had a weakness, a single point of entry.

Three: This plan was an insane, and he wished for once that his mind could think faster than his hands.

With a mental cry of _Verdimillious!_, Danny simultaneously released the spell and kicked off as hard as he could. The force shot him off the ground in an arc, just as another pair of blades shot outward, narrowly missing his feet. He prayed Magnus would not stop moving forward. He had very little margin for error on this.

The force-assisted jump sent him sailing over the barrier, and the rising wind from the ring slowed his descent. He caught a glimpse of Magnus below, still weaving his wand in those intricate patterns. The Death Eater's eyes widened as he looked up, and Danny felt a smug satisfaction at the surprise in that gaze. It would take him a full second to stop his spellcasting. He did not have the luxury of that second now.

"GOT YOU!" roared Danny. He aimed and fired.

Everything seemed so slow at that moment, so distinct. In one smooth motion, Magnus ripped off his cloak and flung it upwards. The heavy cloth obscured Danny's view. In a rage, he fired into it, hoping to catch his target somehow. His curses burned holes into the black cloth before his feet caught it. He rolled forward as he hit the ground, the burnt and tattered cloak fluttering around him. The sound of trees being torn at their roots swamped his ears as the ice blades came crashing down to earth.

He looked up to see Magnus a few feet away, clutching his wand arm. A thin ribbon of smoke was rising from the burn near his wrist. The Death Eater's eyes showed no pain, only cold fury.

"Very good," he said, falling back into stance. "Now we're getting somewhere."

All of Danny's breath came out in a warcry as he rushed forward. The tip of Magnus's wand flared red, bright as Mars.

* * *

Harry kept his eyes locked on the duel before him, and resisted all temptation to turn and look for the oncoming Death Eaters. He had to pretend to be utterly unaware of them, if his plan was to work at all. 

Beside him, Moody was doing the same, keeping his face turned toward the ongoing battle. And between them lay the Auror's upside-down trunk.

Harry could sense Moody's eye whirling about, ever watchful. How far away were the Death Eaters? He strained his ears to listen for their approach, but heard nothing. They must have used Silencing Charms on their feet.

"They're just beyond the trees," Moody whispered, as if he heard Harry's thoughts.

Again, Harry had to concentrate to keep his eyes on the two combatants. He forced himself to breathe normally, although his heart beat double time and every muscle cried out for more air. No, he had to follow Danny's example. Lie here defenseless, feign ignorance. Bait, tempt, let the enemy make his move first.

The trees rustled to his left. Harry's grip instantly tightened on the handle of the trunk.

"DIFFINDO!"

The united cry went up amongst the Death Eaters, and the surrounding trees splintered and tore in two. Though he had been expecting it, the suddenness of their assault paralyzed Harry. Moody, however, knew precisely what to do.

As the Death Eaters leaped through the gaps of the hollow, Moody shouted, "_UP_!"

The trunk vaulted straight up into the air, dragging with it Harry and Moody, who had been holding on to the handles on either side. The unlatched lid of the upside down trunk instantly opened, spilling its contents: one dozen primed Snooze Grenades.

Glancing down, Harry caught the surprised gazes of the Death Eaters before they were consumed by a cloud of glittering gold dust. The trunk rose higher, keeping Harry and Moody out of the cloud's range.

"Fire into it!" cried Moody. "Take out anyone still standing!"

Harry didn't need to be told twice. With a shared cry of _"Stupefy!"_ both he and Moody let loose a hail of curses on the helpless Death Eaters below.

* * *

Danny did not turn his head at the sound of the explosion, but shouted at Magnus, "You lying bastard! You said you'd keep your lackeys out of this!" 

They circled each other again, but this time they were through with waiting and baiting—they unleashed attacks in a relentless chain in an attempt to end the duel through speed…or brute force.

"I merely told them not to interfere with _our _battle," Magnus grunted, blocking a curse aimed for his neck. "And I wanted to make certain your friends wouldn't try to run before we've concluded our business."

"And you call me a coward? I should never have trusted the word of a filthy Death Eater!"

"You'd do better to concentrate on what you have to do to survive, Oaks." Magnus said, lashing out with a conjured spear. "You won't care one bit about what happens to them if you're dead."

Danny broke the spear with a blast from his wand, then they leaped apart, pausing to catch their breath. There was a distinct ionized smell in the air, a by-product of their destructive energy. The surrounding grass had long been burnt black by the passage of curses; some patches were dry enough to catch fire.

"You won't…be the man…to beat me, Aragon," panted Danny.

"Somehow…I doubt you have any grasp…on Divination," replied Magnus, "much less reality."

On a gamble, Danny lunged and thrust his wand forward, a close range attack meant to leave no room for dodging. To his shock, Magnus lunged to meet him. The Death Eater's arm passed over Danny's wand before he could finish his curse, then clamped down, trapping Danny's arm against his side. Grabbing Danny's elbow to finish the lock, Magnus raised his own wand high, reversing his grip to point it down like a dagger. His eyes blazed with triumph.

"AVADA—"

Danny's hand shot up and grabbed the Death Eater's wrist, angling the wand tip away, praying he had twisted it just enough to—

"KEDAVRA!"

A green flash, like light glancing off an emerald. Danny felt the Killing Curse pulse scant inches from his back, discharging somewhere behind him. It felt _cold_—not the way ice or metal felt. He felt the chill from inside his skin, in the very marrow of his bones: the chill of an early grave.

Panic lent him some strength. He tightened his grip on Magnus's wrist and concentrated on keeping the wand pointed away. Try as he might, he could not extract his trapped arm. The Death Eater was using his great strength to force his wand tip at Danny's face. But Danny knew how to turn his opponent's own balance against him. When Magnus pushed, he pulled, and vice versa.

"You won't beat me," Danny snarled. "There's nothing about you that's any different from others I've taken down. You're just a killer. A monster."

Magnus glared down at him. "A monster, yes. As monstrous as a Duelist's heart. We find joy in combat, we revel in battle. But whereas you resist death, _I_ embrace it.

"_Death is power_, Oaks. It cannot be stopped, it cannot be cheated. The Dark Lord knows this, and from him do we draw our might."

They shoved, pulled, twisted and grappled across the meadow, leaving crushed grass and troughs in the earth. Their wands filled the meadow with a harsh, pulsing glare.

"That is why we serve him with our lives. Is it not only wise that I align myself with the only power that knows no bounds?"

The wand tip neared the side of Danny's head, and he swerved to the right to avoid it.

"Death drives my wand, and for one such as you, who knows nothing of service, who believes in nothing, who sells his skills for money—you have no hope of stopping it. For who is stronger than Death?"

Danny pulled Magnus's arm further away to his left, ruining the Death Eater's balance. "If you say you're so powerful, then just try and kill me!"

Magnus smiled. "Try?"

He suddenly reversed his movement, pulling Danny back with him. His wand flared a bright crimson, and Danny cried out as a curse burned into his hip. His vision swam with agony; it felt like acid eating into his flesh, and he knew that if he looked at the wound his courage would break.

Magnus loomed over him, pushing harder, forcing him to bend backwards. Without thinking, Danny dropped into a backroll, dragging his enemy down with him. With a kick he sent the Death Eater tumbling overhead. Arms free at last, he rolled forward onto his feet. Magnus was already pushing himself up—far too slowly! Through the haze of pain, Danny forced his wand arm to obey. He raised it—

_BANG!_

The Death Eater froze, caught on one knee. His eyes drifted down, down to the huge smoldering burn on his chest.

Danny's arm lowered on its own accord, watching as Magnus teetered forward, like a tree about to be felled. He felt tired beyond all endurance. He could not have held out much longer, but finally—

Magnus raised his wand and shot him in the knee. The remaining air in Danny's lungs came out in a scream. Then a second curse slammed into his other knee; the pain caused a moment's darkness to pass over his eyes. Danny pitched forward, but an invisible hand caught him by the neck and held him up.

Magnus kept his wand trained on him. Gritting his teeth in pain, he reached his other hand into the burnt part of his robe. "If you'd used a lethal curse," he said, "you'd have been victorious!" There came the sound of a snapping chain, and he flung a blackened disc at Danny's feet.

_Apparation Pass_, Danny realized, _forgot all about it._

The hand of force tightened around his neck, lifting him higher. For a moment he was held there, his tongue thickening, his lungs crying out for air. Then with a flick of his wand Magnus sent Danny sailing overhead.

As he flew through the air, Danny turned just enough to catch a glimpse of the sky above. He did not feel fear, not really. Just a lingering, bitter regret. _Moody's right after all, _he thought_. Rules are paper wands. Rules don't matter a thing when you see death rising in your enemy's eyes, when the slightest movement of his wand meant your destruction._

Rules were no good here. Nothing was.

The sky vanished altogether as he plunged into the churning waters of the stream. He gasped at the shocking cold, swallowing a mouthful, then pushed hard from the bottom with his hands. He broke through the surface, a miserable, coughing mess. His wounds sang out in raptures.

The stream thankfully had not been deep; the water only reached up to his waist. Blinking rapidly, he caught the dark blur of the Death Eater advancing towards the banks. Struggling to keep his balance, Danny wobbled forward to meet the attack. _Got to keep fighting_, _got to keep…_

Danny bent his knees and entered a crouch, left hand wiping his eyes, wand hand submerged in the water. He had to wait for the moment Magnus closed in for the kill. If he timed this wrong, he was not going to get a second chance.

Gripping the phantom wand tightly, he raised his eyes to meet his enemy…

…and found he could not raise his wand.

The surface of the water around him had frozen solid. His hips were blocked in ice. He could no longer draw out his right arm, which he had stuck up to his elbow into the stream. He could not even stand up.

Magnus's voice carried clearly across the ice.

"Seagull Grand Art, _Rising From Water_, wasn't it? Submerge your wand, conceal its movements, then strike up from the water to surprise your enemy."

He walked maddeningly within range, arms folded, watching. Danny tried to yank his arm back up, and his joints shrieked in protest.

"Do not struggle, Danny Oaks," Magnus intoned. "It is unseemly for a Duelist to struggle in his last moments. You fought well, now accept defeat."

He uncrossed his arms. His wand began to glow green. The little hairs on Danny's neck rose with that familiar chill. Killing Curse. No blocking, no countercurse, no dodging...

And to his surprise, he longed for it. Part of him did, it was true. He wanted a finale, wanted to lay down the pointless trek of his years, no matter how ignoble the end. He didn't have to struggle, didn't have to do anything but stay here like a bent old prisoner, waiting for his execution.

Except...except that he could still see her eyes, marking him. Could still feel her gaze, filled with tenderness and the sweet, soul-filling warmth he had known most of his young life.

_You will be a great man someday, Danny, if you let yourself. _

Gray eyes, so much like his own. If he lived, he would see them again. That was as good a reason as any.

No, that was the best reason of all.

He wanted to see her. He wanted to live.

And his hands obeyed.

Before Magnus could point his wand, before he could utter the words of the Killing Curse, the phantom wand slipped out of Danny's right hand, passed through his body, and emerged on his left. Danny fired without thinking.

The move surprised Magnus, but it was not surprise enough. A Wandshield reappeared before him to turn it away. But Danny had not been aiming for him.

The Heat spell struck the unfrozen water at Magnus's feet. It discharged with a loud HISSS! and a great cloud of steam rose from the banks. With a hoarse cry, the Death Eater tried to cover his eyes, wipe his face, and back away at the same time. His Wandshield wavered, and Danny took the opening.

He let loose what was perhaps the fastest chain of curses he had ever done. One after another the spells thundered from his whirling wand, and finally they burst through Magnus's Wandshield. Still Danny did not relent. He hurled even more curses—Stunners, Blinders, Full-Body Binds—until at last he saw through the smoky air that his enemy had finally sunk to his knees. Only then did he cease fire.

Magnus, somehow, was still conscious. But he was no threat. The wand rolled from his limp hand into the boiling water before him. A simple _Accio_ spell brought it to Danny's hand.

It was only then that the young Duomancer knew he had won. He had kept his First Commandment, and his opponent would live to know it.

_I've kept my word to myself, Ellie_, he thought, smiling wearily. _If you could only see me now... _

* * *

After he had melted his way out of the ice, Danny waded through the stream until he reached dry land. He gave Magnus a wide berth as he did so, and made sure to keep a wand trained at him. The man was beaten, but was incredibly still conscious. _It's a miracle he is,_ Danny reflected, _what with all the curses I used on him. _

Magnus tilted forward, but remained seated seemingly through will alone. He raised his eyes to look at Danny's face. His face was pale and empty of expression—only the tightness of his jaws showed he felt any pain at all.

The Death Eater did not speak. Perhaps he couldn't. _I must've added a Muting Hex in there somewhere_, thought Danny. Those glacier blue eyes, however, communicated what he could not say. Fury, for one—not at Danny, but at his own failure. Pride as well, a refusal to bow or show weakness.

And finally, to Danny's surprise, there was a certain resignation. His enemies often showed incredulity at their own loss, but not Magnus. He sat there calmly, accepting defeat and waiting for something... inevitable.

Danny soon figured out what it was.

"You want me to kill you?"

Magnus's response was a slight inclination of his head. _It is my right, as a Duelist and a Death Eater,_ his eyes seemed to say. _It is my way. _His eyes widened, filled with an imperious light. _Kill me._

Danny said nothing. He had never had an opponent like this, and in a way, he admired Magnus. _If I should die like this_, Danny thought, _on my knees, at someone else's mercy, would I meet it with such courage?_

After a long moment, he raised both wands.

Then with all his might, he hurled the Death Eater's wand into the air. The polished dark wood glinted as twirled towards the sun. Danny raised his phantom wand, took careful aim, and fired. In a heartbeat, Magnus's wand vanished in a puff of black smoke and a muted explosion.

Danny turned to Magnus, a loutish smile on his face. "Well, well. A fine duel this has been, eh? But it's getting late and my friends and I really must to be going. Guess we can call this a draw, then."

He left the speechless Death Eater at the banks and hobbled his way back to the hollow.

"Oaks."

Danny stopped dead in his tracks. He looked over his shoulder back at Magnus.

Somehow, the Death Eater had mustered the strength to turn his head. Once again, his eyes held that singular, murderous look. "If you...leave me...alive...one day...I will find you. I will kill you. You will never be...safe from me...Can you live...knowing that?"

Danny smiled again. "I'll live, no matter what. Catch you later." And he turned and walked on.

Harry and Moody were waiting for him at the bottom of the hill, and Harry seized an arm before Danny could pitch forward onto the grass.

"I did it," Danny proudly told his godfather.

"I can see that," Moody growled as he struggled to his feet. "And with the shape you're in, you won't be doing much for a while."

"Aw, this is nothing. Anyway," Danny turned to Harry, beaming. "Did you see how I handled that guy back there? Was that finest wandwork you've ever seen in your life or what? That display must be worth a month's training for you, so I hope you were paying attention."

Harry and Moody exchanged glances, then Harry shook his head. "Sorry, we were a little distracted at the time. We had our own problems to take care of." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the hollow, where nine Death Eaters lay unconscious.

Danny goggled at him. "You've got to be kidding me! That was the fight of my life back there, and you're saying neither of you were watching it?"

"Yeah," said Harry, smiling slightly.

"Didn't see a thing," agreed Moody.

Stunned, Danny could only gape at them, his face burning with outrage and disbelief.

"Well, we couldn't watch you take on just one guy, you know," said Harry, "considering we had _nine _Death Eaters to handle."

"And if you'd worked a little faster, we wouldn't have had to deal with them either!" admonished Moody.

"I don't believe you!" cried Danny. "You're taking the mickey out of me, that's what! You saw my duel! C'mon, on you guys, admit it! _C'mon!_"

They chuckled as they led him away from the clearing, back into the safety of the forest.

_To be continued_

_Author's notes:_

_1. This chapter was one of the earliest conceived for TPATS. I've been planning it for years, choreographing it over and over in my head. I've portrayed Dueling here as a mix of Oriental sword styles, European half-sword dueling, gun-fighting, and ping-pong. _

_2. A spell is composed of its incantation and its wand movement. A combat spell or a string of spells cast in a certain way to achieve a certain effect is called a technique. A group of techniques created with a single theme in mind is called a School. Each School has advanced techniques that are jealously guarded and passed on only to the most devoted students. These are called Grand Arts._

_3. Am currently reading Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy. I've made it all the way to the third book in something like two weeks. Lyra and Pantalaimon are such a vivid, lovable pair, and I admire the way Pullman's world meshes physics with fantasy. _

_4. I'm really into the thick of marriage preparations now, with the wedding only five months away. We've already picked out the date, the church, the motif, the reception area, the caterer, our guest list, a photographer, a dressmaker, and a wedding car. Currently I've been fixing up our marriage documents and looking for a nice, affordable, one-bedroom apartment. Anybody there know any tips for apartment-hunting?_

_Chapter XX: "Doom Hound"_


	20. Doom Hound

**The ****Phoenix**** and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter XX: Doom Hound**

In his quarters, high above his fortress, the Dark Lord awaited a field report that was no longer forthcoming.

Brooding, he sat in his high-backed chair, facing the candelabra that sat on a little table before him. For the past few weeks he had received reports from his agents scattered across Britain this way. He had been keen over the past few days on hearing from Captain Aragon, for he had discovered his suspicions were true: the agents of the Order had indeed been in Hillsdale, at the very inn he had seen in his dream.

There were three of them, in fact.

Yesterday, complications arose. More agents of the Order, apparently a search party sent to look for the three, had attacked Captain Aragon's platoon and nearly decimated them. Of 20 Death Eaters, only 10 remained.

And today—nothing.

Voldemort waited with growing impatience for the candelabra to burst into flames, for Captain Magnus to once more reassure him that things were proceeding as planned. His impatience grew as the hours ticked by, made worse by the physical discomfort he had been experiencing as of late—inexplicable muscle pains, frequent itching on his scalp and forehead. No medicine he knew would help, and so today he drank mulled wine to dull his senses.

It worked too well. By late afternoon, he had fallen asleep.

A half moon was rising on the gray ocean when he finally awoke. He sat up stiffly, wide eyes staring into the gloom. With a hiss of fury, he bolted from his chair and grabbed the Felwing skull on the nearby shelf.

_"Necropolis!"_

The incantation sent him spiraling down to the bowels of his fortress, into the dungeons that housed his "factory." The air was stale with the pungent scent of chemicals and animal waste. Torches cast long shadows on the cold, moist walls, and the stones themselves seemed to tremble with the sound of his beasts' heavy breathing.

He approached the nearest wall and followed it in a counter-clockwise direction. He was forced to stop a moment when the muscles in his legs began to seize up. Gritting his teeth, making sure no eyes were watching, the Dark Lord leaned against the wall and waited for the pain to pass. It came more often nowadays, too often to simply ignore. It was unnatural—sometimes his limbs would constrict, or appear like he had the shakes. Other times, he felt as if his muscles were rearranging themselves beneath his skin.

Lately, he had found something even more disconcerting, something that made him draw back into the shadows of his hood: his hair was growing back. There was no doubt about it . The mirror showed tiny strands of black hair emerging from his brows, and even the pale skin of his scalp was darkening with them.

What was causing all this? Some instability with the potions that kept him strong? Perhaps some unknown side-effect of the Necropotence spell that had brought back his body? He did not know. But one thing he did know: for as long as his body felt weak, he had to keep all this secret. However loyal they were, should his followers find out they might house certain thoughts in their heads. Thoughts that would turn into schemes, schemes that would turn into action. The young officers in his army, for example—he had to keep them cowed, always. Lucius was a valued retainer, but even he had his ambitions. And Gallowbraid…

_The world smiles with wolf teeth,_ he thought to himself,_ and I must answer with a tiger's grin_. His rule must be unquestioned, unchallenged. Else he would not rule at all.

After casting a furtive glance around him, he resumed walking, and presently stopped before the largest of the cages.

The Doom Hound lay there at the center of the floor, bathed in moonshine flowing in from its window. Even at rest it seemed restless: cords of muscles undulated beneath its ebony skin, and its mandibles quivered and dripped with saliva. Long scratches had been gouged where it had stroked the stone floor, perhaps in boredom--if it was capable of feeling any. But now it was alert, eyes shining on its visitor like twin full moons.

Beast and master contemplated each other for a few moments.

"I had a dream," said Voldemort.

"In my dream, I saw Captain Aragon, my strongest, most willful Death Eater, battling a youngling in a duel to the death. Though my vassal showed great prowess and skill, it was all for naught, for he was defeated.

"I dreamt I saw nine of my Death Eaters, wands raised high in attack, vanishing in a sudden golden mist that sprang from the ground. I watched from some height above them, watched their bodies fall as they were assailed by spellfire that seemingly came from my own hand.

"Now night has come, and no one has called to report."

Voldemort knelt, so his face was level with the Doom Hound's. The creature inclined its massive head, as if to breathe in its master's scent.

"Are these merely products of an unquiet mind," whispered the Dark Lord, "or are they reality?

"These I know for certain: that there are three men whom I seek, three whose skills combined could outfox Gallowbraid and outmatch Magnus. I know that one of them is the Auror Alastor Moody, the other that blond youth I saw in my dream. But who is this third agent?"

The beast let out a low snort. Voldemort reached out and ran his fingers along the cold curve of a mandible. "That is the question, is it not? That, and why I never catch a glimpse of him in my dreams."

Voldemort cupped his hand around the beast's huge jaw. There was not a flicker of pleasure or approval in the Doom Hound's expression. It merely accepted the gesture.

"Oh, but I am merely confusing myself. I already suspect whose eyes it is I see through. In my first dream the old Auror brought his face close to mine and spoke a name." The crimson eyes narrowed. "He called me, _Harry_."

This time, the Doom Hound's ears twitched in sudden interest, and a growl issued from its throat. The sound rumbled through its powerful body, seemed to pass into the floor.

"Yet my mind rebels against what I suspect in my heart," Voldemort continued, "because my spy in Hogwarts swears, to this moment, that Harry Potter is there, living the life of any normal boy. So we are at an impasse: what my agent says and what I say cannot both be true, can they?

"And so, you come in.

"I had hoped to keep you for the very last minute, but it seems there is a need for you here and now. You are my greatest creation, Michael Dunn. You shall be my sword to cut this Gordian Knot. Go and find the truth. You cannot be fooled. Potter's scent drifts in your mind, and his very blood stirs in your body. You will find him even if he hides at the ends of the earth. You are his Doom Hound."

Voldemort stood up. His bone-white hands hovered over the beast, and he cut his wrist open with his silver knife, as he had several days before. Blood dripped down onto the open jaws of the Hound, sharpening the taste in its memory.

Then Voldemort took out his wand and pointed it at the opposite wall of the creature's cage. There came a mighty crash as the bricks exploded outward, and a huge hole gaped in the wall of the cell. Moonlight filtered in through a cloud of dust, as did the sound of the surf.

Voldemort bent low towards the beast's ear, as if to share a secret. "He is a brave boy, truly worthy of Gryffindor." He smiled savagely. "Bring me his heart."

And the great beast reared up on its hind legs and gave a hunting cry. The walls rumbled, and the creatures in the other cages turned their faces away and whimpered to themselves. Many levels above, sleeping Death Eaters shivered in their beds as untold horrors crept into their dreams.

The Doom Hound turned and leaped through the hole, hurtling towards the sea.

Satisfied, the Dark Lord watched it go. In a minute, he would go to his quarters and lie on his bed. If he should fall asleep again, why, it wouldn't bother him one bit. To be truthful, he wouldn't mind dreaming again.

_No_, he thought, grinning a tiger's grin, _I wouldn't mind dreaming at all_.

* * *

"But where in the world _are _they?" 

Marius Haggerty bent over the map that spanned nearly the whole of Lyle's desk and peered at the forested area north of Hillsdale. A long line marked the chasm known as the Deceiver's Fall. Further north was a token that marked the location of Sirius and Remus's platoon.

"Isn't that the question of the year?" said Arabella wearily. Their meeting in the commander's quarters had been running for three hours now, and with the exception of Lyle, their eyes had grown bleary from reading reports and staring at maps. The light had nearly gone from the west, and Marius had eventually gotten up to light a candle.

"Well, they can't have just vanished into thin air," Marius said for the third time that night. He dipped his quill in the ink pot and peered at the map again. "Given the time it's been since they left the Deceiver's Fall, and assuming they walked all day with few stops, they would be within…" he drew a large semicircle on the map, "…this area."

Lyle, who had listened to the length of Marius's drawing, said, "Take into account that they would be traveling much slower, as Harry may not have fully recovered from his illness."

"Ah, quite…" Marius drew a smaller shape. "Sirius and Remus should search this area, then."

"They can't possibly cover all that by themselves," Arabella said, "not after their battle with the Death Eaters—they'd be spread out too thin."

"True, but they have to keep at it or the Dark Army will beat them to their quarry."

"Then we must send help. I suggest using Centaur pathfinders, Commander."

Instead of answering her, Lyle turned to Marius. "How well is Galino holding the Front?"

"They've won a second victory in Ottery St. Catchpole," replied Marius. "Marvelous work considering those men had little time to train with their Golems. Minimal losses on our side. Plus their position in the hills is highly defensible."

"Then perhaps they can do without reinforcements for a while." Lyle turned to Arabella. "We can afford to send a squad of Centaur pathfinders. Pull them out of the Felixstowe and have them rendezvous with Sirius and Remus."

"I shall do so instantly…half a minute, Commander." Lyle heard her shift in her seat, then set something softly on the table. "Mr. Gunther has come with some news," she said. "Urgent, it seems, as he rarely comes straight to me when I'm in a meeting—yes, darling, what is it?"

Both Lyle and Marius waited patiently as Arabella conferred with her Kneazle in short, distinct little mews. After a minute, she raised her head. "It's from Snape, sir."

Lyle instantly leaned forward.

"He says he has succeeded. He is on the ghost ship, heading from Portsmouth to Onyx Isle."

Marius drew in a quick, shuddering breath, and a smile broke on the Commander's face. "That is the most welcome news I've heard in a while," said Lyle, "far better than we'd hoped."

"Indeed…but there's more, Commander," Arabella's tone grew serious. "He says he witnessed something strange early this morning, before he left on the ship."

"What is it?"

"Something came out of the ocean: a creature of some sort. It had swum its way to Portsmouth from the open sea, apparently. The Death Eater captains have been expecting it, as they were watching for it from the dock. But they did not approach it, sir. They seemed, well, afraid to."

She paused, aware of Marius watching her, and how still Lyle had become. She went on, "After it had emerged from the sea, it ran straightaway to the edge of town and vanished into the forest. It was in a tearing hurry."

Lyle said, "What did it look like?"

Arabella bent low once more to confirm with Mr. Gunther. Then she said, "Snape found it very hard to describe, sir, he'd seen nothing like it. It was something monstrous. But…if he had to choose some animal to compare to, he said it looked like a great, black dog."

"A dog?" repeated Marius.

"Well, a hound, to be more precise…"

A pregnant pause filled the air, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the wall, and the tallow dropping softly from the edge of the candle holder.

Lyle said, "I want those Centaur pathfinders out there. Pull them out, Arabella. Right now."

* * *

The Doom Hound of Lord Voldemort had left Onyx Isle on the eve of Magnus's defeat and swam throughout the night, reaching England the following morning. By noon the next day, it was twelve miles south of Hillsdale. At the same time, the Centaur pathfinder squad had made it to the forests and rendezvoused with Sirius and Remus. 

What no one of the Order knew was that Harry and his two companions were several miles northeast of the location being searched, en route to Lake Mab to find the home of Nicholas Flamel. The Doom Hound, however, had no such problem. It had the fragrant scent of Harry's blood in its mind, and hurled itself forward on its path as if drawn by an invisible string.

It sprang over rocks and rivers, sped through farms and meadows. It rushed through a pond, surprising a flock of geese into flight. It leaped and caught one between its mandibles, and feasted while it ran. Later that night, it sped across the road to Dover, causing motorists to scream and slam down on the brakes, resulting in a ten-car pileup that appeared on the evening news. The beast, of course, took no notice of the damage it had caused. No memory of roads and men visited its dim brain as it veered away from the forests north of Hillsdale, choosing a course closer to the sea.

Never once did it rest or stop.

By the third night since the battle with Magnus, the Doom Hound had come within twenty miles of its quarry.

* * *

Harry set down the backpack he was carrying beside the tree and leaned his tired body against the trunk. Beside him, Moody was deploying his Dark Detectors in a tight circle on the ground. Danny leaned on the other side of the tree, scanning their surroundings. 

"Moody…" Danny began.

"You asked me the same question everyday for the past three days," the old man cut him off, "and it's the second time today. My answer's still the same: _we'll see_."

Danny's question would have been: "Are we going to get to Flamel's house by today?" Normally, they would have finished their journey after a day and a half of constant walking, but their current conditions made that too much to hope for.

The trek from their original campsite three days ago had not been an easy one. Danny's knee injuries made a torture out of walking, and this time it was Harry who had to lend an arm just so they could move along. Moody, who also could not walk for long, led the way by riding the floating shield he'd used back in Evensdale ("If you'd told me you had that thing, I wouldn't have had to carry you!" Danny groused). They had stumbled along, looking for all the world like they survivors of a war. The going was slow, and the fear of pursuit ever-present.

But no one, neither friend nor foe, came for them. Save for frequent rests to re-bandage wounds and refresh tired muscles, the journey was unbroken and uneventful. After a day of travel, they emerged from the forest. Fences and roads now littered the landscape, and in the distance they could spy the borders of a small farm. They had to be even more careful then, for there were few means for cover, and highways flowed down from the hills and cut across the open plain. Moody had insisted they not be seen by anyone, so they had to crouch in the grass like rabbits, waiting for the cars to streak past before crossing to the other side. Danny did not think much of this, but his pain seemed to occupy him too much for him to complain.

On their second day of travel, Harry woke to find himself shifting between Harry Potter and Robert Jerome Smith. He sat up and touched his hands to his face ashis disguise flickered in and out of existence. It felt like a mass of confused ants were marching up and down his body.

"Looks like the enchantment's almost used up," said Moody, who was watching him. "Better give it up completely. You'll catch less attention that way. We'll just have to be more careful from now on."

Feeling even more vulnerable than ever, Harry spoke his true name and ended the effects of the Polymien Pill.

And so they had gone, ducking behind rocks and bushes, resting in thickets, and trying to cover as much ground as they could muster, and taking whatever food they could find: acorns, wild berries, mushrooms, apples stolen from orchards. Their third night, like every night before, found them exhausted and hungry.

"I'll take first watch," said Danny. Nobody argued.

Harry spread out his bedroll and eased himself into it. There was not much to do in the evenings but sleep and regain their strength. It was difficult to imagine getting any sleep here in the wilderness, with the constant fear of being hunted down, yet they managed somehow.

"I have an announcement," said Danny, who was rummaging through their food pouch. "We have officially reached the bottom of our food supply. Unless we find something suitable by tomorrow, we won't have a bite to eat until we reach Flamel's." The pouch came hurtling from around the tree to land beside Harry. "Have a walnut."

There was nothing to do but accept it. Harry and Moody nibbled on their last planned supper: six raisins, four berries and three kinds of nuts. A grand feast indeed.

The one good thing going for them was the agreeable weather, which seemed to be apologizing for drenching them their first few days out of Hillsdale. Each day the sun warmed the grass beneath their feet and a breeze cooled their faces. Despite the shadow of the Black Barrier, the sapphire sky stretched above them. In the late afternoons, they were treated to a light show: as the sinking sun touched the horizon, its last rays refracted through the Black Barrier, turning the western sky into a red-orange haze that deepened with each passing hour. It was this sight that greeted them now as they turned their gaze west.

"Funny how something so wicked could make something so beautiful," Moody said, and Harry agreed.

Soon the light faded away, and only a few diminished stars came out in the night sky. Harry pulled his cloak closer around him as the cold crept around them in a fine mist. Even now, he thought, a desolate land like this was beautiful. How strange.

He closed his eyes and, as he had done so for the past few nights, remembered things that eased his mind. He thought of the Burrow and the meadow beside it, covered in a summer's coat of wildflowers. He thought of waking up in a soft bed to the scent of bacon from the kitchen below. He thought of many meals in the Great Hall, of long chess games by the common room fire, and the way Hermione's face lit up whenever Ron approached her.

Mostly, he imagined Ginny's laughter. He remembered the sound of it shimmering in the air whenever she found something funny. He pictured her face shining in delight when a butterfly surprised her by landing on her shoulder. The image of that smile spreading to her freckled cheeks, her head thrown back in mirth, her laughter filling the air…These foolish little things warmed him and kept the darkness at bay. He wished he could hear her laughter for real, but he could not quite forget that they had very little reason to laugh together.

After a time, he slept, and his mind slipped away into some distant, nameless place.

He dreamt of the forest they had left many miles behind, where the night breeze stirred the leaves and hidden owls hooted amongst the branches. Somewhere in that well of shadows he thought he heard a forlorn cry, like the call of a lost child. The sound struck an answering chord inside of him, and he too longed for the comfort of a mother's presence.

But the air suddenly grew dank and heavy around him. A terrible weight pressed against his chest, and as in his dreams before his limbs would not obey him. The cry sounded again, closer this time. But no longer did it seem melancholy. Instead it took on an alien shrill, and in a layer on its own beneath it, the timbre of a dull roar.

Harry gritted his teeth as the noise pierced his brain. He struggled against the paralysis, straining to cover his ears, and as he did so he found himself waking up. But not before he saw a dark shadow rising out from the depths of the woods, and twin full moons blazing into the night sky.

He woke up gasping.

At the sound, Moody's eyes snapped open and regarded him.

"Bad dream?"

Harry shook his head, trying to clear his sleep-fogged brain. "I…I'm not sure. I suppose so…"

At the sound of their voices, Danny poked his head out from the other side of the tree. "What's up? I was just about to wake Moody. It's nearly been five hours…just wanted you guys to get some more sleep…"

"The lad had a nightmare," said Moody. He and Danny traded a glance, and both turned to look at Harry expectantly.

"I saw the moonrise…" said Harry.

"Well, that's not much of a worry," said Danny, turning his gaze to the sky. The moon shone down on them, a bright silver coin falling through the fingers of the clouds.

Harry shook his head again. "No, not in the east," he said. "In the south. And…there were two of them."

Danny raised an eyebrow.

"Two moons?" repeated Moody. "That mean anything to you?"

It did. He realized it now, and the thought sent goosebumps rippling down his arms. The beast was out. It was finally coming for him, that thing that had haunted his dreams.

"Michael Dunn," he said.

* * *

It was a credit to how much they believed in Harry's link to Voldemort that neither Danny nor Moody questioned him when he explained why they had to leave. They grabbed their belongings and broke camp within the minute. While this cheered him, Harry also felt a twinge of guilt. Moody, at least, could now walk by himself. But Danny hadn't slept at all. His eyes were red and glazed, and after an hour's walking he was starting to lag behind. He kept refusing Moody's demands to take a turn on the floating shield. After a couple of hours, however, he finally reached his limit and succumbed, comporting himself cross-legged on the thing while Harry and Moody flanked him. 

"I feel like a baby in a carriage," he complained.

"You even carry on like one," replied Moody.

They marched on, northwest across the hills and plains, with Moody occasionally using the Point Me Charm to ensure they were still on course. Darkness lay before them, darkness behind. Harry turned his gaze at the black windows of the farm houses they passed, imagining the residents asleep in their soft, warm beds with the blankets tucked beneath their chins, and felt himself aching for comfort. But more often he would look over his shoulder at something distant and unseen, something that convinced—no, commanded him to keep moving.

And now, with every step they took, the signs of civilization began to thin away. Farms and houses receded into the distance as they once more entered the wilderness. The land undulated in low grassy hills, and here and there thin bare trees stood in solitary guardianship of the plain.

When dawn finally came, pushing through the darkness and mist, they found themselves at the edge of a bog. Reeds and tall grass lined the patches of murky water, and the air around them carried the heavy scent of damp earth.

Moody surveyed the marsh from one end to the other. "Through here," he said. "The river out of Lake Mab feeds this bog. If we can just get past this..."

"And how do you expect us to do that, eh?" said Danny. "Look at how wet it is. I don't fancy stepping wrong and sinking without a trace, Moody."

"Neither do I. But whatever's chasing us isn't gettin' any further into this place either. As for crossing it ourselves, you leave that to me." Moody tapped the side of his head, near his magical eye. "I've got the solution right here."

He seemed to notice that Harry's legs were visibly shaking, and Danny's face was white with fatigue.

"You two take a breather," said Moody, "but keep your eyes peeled. I'll start looking for a safe way across. Once we're in the middle it'll probably be safe enough to get more rest." He left them, stumping along the edge of the swamp.

"I'd never thought I'd be glad to hear him order me around," said Danny. Together, he and Harry hobbled over to a shriveled tree and hunkered down on its exposed roots.

"So this Michael Dunn fellow," Danny said, as they leaned back on the trunk. "Voldemort did something to him?"

"Yes, and not just him." Harry replied. Part of him recoiled from talking about the worst nightmare he'd had in recent memory, but any bit of information may be important in saving their lives. "First he…he killed Michael's sons, right before his eyes."

Danny was silent for a minute, and Harry saw a muscle stand out in his jaw. "Why'd he do that?"

"Voldemort said it was to make him stronger. Maybe to make him hateful, hateful enough to want to survive…whatever Voldemort had in store for him. And now, I don't think he's human anymore."

"And you're sure he's coming for you?"

"I can feel it, somehow. I know it sounds downright stupid, but I do. Maybe it has something to do with my link to Voldemort…" He wished Dumbledore were here; he was far better at formulating theories on the matter.

"Right," said Danny. "Well, he's not the first non-human we've faced down, is he? And we did all right with that Wagnard bloke. What could be worse?"

Harry only nodded.

"Don't you worry," Danny yawned. "Now…you don't mind if I just…shut my eyes for a bit?"

"Go ahead. I'll keep watch."

"Powerful long way we've come," Danny mumbled, "and a good way more to go. Got to…keep up our strength…you know…"

His head lolled forward, seemingly asleep even before he finished his sentence.

Harry stared into the gray veil of the mists. Very soon, the warmth of the sun would melt through it all and give him a clearer view of their surroundings. The wind in the empty sky above them sounded like the dull roar of a low-flying jet. Harry watched and listened to all this, and though his eyes burned and his muscles ached for rest, his mind refused to sleep. His assassin was somewhere in that fog-shrouded land. He would be glad to be moving once again.

To ease his mind, he tried to think of Ginny's laughter. But the memory felt thin and hollow; it had no place here, where there was nothing beautiful to warm his heart, nothing but a ghostly gray shroud around him and the cold wind that stung his eyes. He momentarily shut them, and that was when his nose caught the scent.

He had never smelled anything quite like it before, and its strangeness disoriented him.

No, that was not quite right. He remembered the first time his Uncle Vernon thrust him into the cupboard under the stairs, without even a light bulb to illuminate his little room. It smelled of age and dust and mildew—and something beneath it all. Some indefinable stench, a rich iron tang that reminded him strongly of blood. It set his imagination into overdrive: something was in the dark there with him, hidden and biding its time.

That was the first time he had smelled it, and it made him scream with all the power of his lungs. And though he did not remember it now, he had caught it a few other times while he was growing up—while entering a dark alley, while climbing a ledge on a dare, upon entering the Chamber of Secrets, and in the graveyard where he last faced Voldemort.

That alien reek was here now, and with it his childhood fear. Both were more potent than before, creeping into his blood like a virulent poison. He sat up at once, peered around, but saw nothing. He listened hard, but the mist dampened all sound.

There were shapes in the mist around them. He was sure he knew what they were—rocks, bushes, small trees. But one dark shape moved, extracting itself from the rest. It looked like a piece of the night had somehow returned. It grew more defined as it moved past the mist and into view.

And Harry took his first long look at the face of Michael Dunn.

The beast was as in his dreams—the ebony, hairless skin, the long hound-like snout, the thin gray lips that did nothing to conceal its teeth, and those restless, clicking, granite-toned mandibles he'd heard many, many times before. Its muscles twitched and rippled as it padded through the grass. It was like no creature on earth, yet somehow looked familiar to him. It looked—inevitable.

He tried to shout, tried to turn away. But the only movement he could muster was to touch his fingers to Danny's wrist.

The beast stopped several yards from him, regarding him with orbs of silver. _When Michael Dunn died they put coins over his eyes_, Harry thought wildly, _and he hasn't taken them off ever since_.

He tried to curl his fingers around Danny's wrist, but his hand refused to respond. That same lethargy he'd experienced in his sleep had stolen over him, and a crushing weight pressed down on his chest. His ribcage felt as if it had shrunk around his trembling little heart. He could not cry out—his tongue had frozen. All he could do was stare back in a kind of awe, as if he had experienced an epiphany. Only when its jaws openedlike a strange, carnivorous bloom, revealing rows of dripping teeth, did terror strike a trembling chord in him.

Its jaws were impossibly wide. It could easily swallow his head.

The beast reared back and hurled itself at him. Harry remained rooted in his seat, staring as the dark hulk rumbled towards him.In three bounds it was nearly upon him, but Harry lost sight of it as something suddenly blocked his view.

Danny crouched before him. He faced the oncoming beast with his left hand outstretched, as if commanding it to stop. The phantom wand shot out of from his palm. The beast leaped at him, claws outstretched. A brilliant flash of light erupted as Danny fired into its mouth.

Harry heard the curse's thunderclap a split-second later. It woke him out of his stupor. The sound was followed by a low thud and a tremor as the beast hit the ground some distance away.

A screamed bubbled up from Harry's throat, but with the constriction around his chest it came out in a low _haaaahhh_. Clinging onto the tree behind him, he forced himself to his feet.

Danny seemed oblivious to his state. He kept his eyes focused on the inert body of the beast. "Looks like I got 'im," he said over his shoulder. "Went down pretty fast, didn't he…"

His words died as the beast picked itself up. This time it stood on its hind legs, towering over them like a massive bear. Its claws were daggers of jet, its eyes were savage moons.

"Bloody hell," said Danny, in a voice Harry had never heard him use. It was high and as taut as violin strings. The two of them stared with wide eyes as the hulking figure raised its head and cried out in two terrible voices—a roar that Harry felt in his very bones, and a vulture-like screech that raked at his ears. Harry felt like he'd been punched in the chest. He willed himself to stay on his feet.

Danny stepped back and stood beside Harry, leaning against the tree. He had pulled out his other wand with one trembling hand. But the beast hardly seemed to register his presence at all. It kept its long face pointed towards Harry. It roared again, then charged again.

This time Harry found the strength to react. He threw himself to one side, and Danny lunged in the other. A split second later the beast's mandibles closed around the trunk of the tree. It sounded like an axeblade biting into wood.

Harry, who had fallen onto his backside, hurriedly scrambled to his feet. Danny was taking more time struggling to get up, all the while keeping both wands primed at the monster between them. It was crouching against the tree, its teeth seemingly stuck on the bark. But Harry heard the snap and groan of straining wood, and the roots burst out of the ground.

With nary an effort, the beast stood up, taking the tree with it.

Harry could only watch in horror as it lifted the tree in its jaws high overhead, like a dog fetching a stick. The beast swung its head towards him, flinging clumps of earth and grass. Harry could see the gleam of light on its teeth.

Shots rang out and a spray of electricity erupted on the back of the monster. Danny was hurling curses at it, both his wands flaring like signal torches. But he might as well have been trying to level a mountain with a pair of trowels. The beast hardly noticed him, its thick chitinous hide shrugging off all damage. It reared back its head to fling the tree at Harry.

Harry drew his wand, but a strong hand snatched him backwards. A hoarse cry rang out in his right ear and the tree exploded. Bits of wood peppered his body, and when he lowered his arms he saw Mad-Eye Moody standing before him. The tree lay in two smoking pieces on either side of the beast.

The beast did not look angry or frustrated. It did not have any expression at all, nor did it seem to notice the old man. It kept its idiot stare straight at Harry. And to Harry those white orbs seemed like punctures in reality; if he kept looking at them, he might fall through to someplace he would never escape from.

Moody's hand clutched at his forearm like a talon. "Don't stare at it!" he shouted. His magical eye shot towards him once, then turned back to the beast. "Don't look at its eyes!"

Behind it, Danny kept flinging one curse after another at the beast, but it stepped almost casually forward. Harry could not turn his face away; there was something completely arresting in the beast's gaze. _Come to me_, its vacant face seemed to say. _You were meant to come to me. I am your fate, your rest, your last breath. I am your doom._

Its gaze vanished in a bright yellow haze as Moody fired a curse at its face. That monstrous head snapped back as if punched, then fell forward again. It did not even blink. As more lightning bolts flowed from Danny's wands, Moody fire two more curses straight at the beast's chest. The first one discharged harmlessly, the second ricocheted away like a golden bullet.

"What are you doing?" bellowed Moody, shoving Harry back. "Get back, you bloody fool! Get back or it'll kill—"

The old man's words were lost as the beast let out another half-roar, half-shriek. Harry planted his hands against his ears, but sickness still washed over him in a dark wave. There was no standing against it. Church bells rang in his brain, his legs felt like water. Dimly he was aware of Moody shrinking back, nearly crumpling at the terrible wail. And just when Harry thought the undertow would drag him down to darkness, the sound was cut off.

Harry opened his eyes, grateful for the respite. The beast still stood before them, but a thick membrane of what appeared to be spider silk was stretched across its neck and jaws. The threads gathered at the tips of Danny's wands, and Danny was pulling back at that monstrous head with all his might.

"Ignore ME, would you?" grunted the Duomancer. "See how you like THIS!"

He yanked as hard as he could, leaning back and digging his heels into the earth. Caught in the web, the beast's mandibles spread outwards. It snorted in pain through its mask of silvery silk and tried to claw it off, but the webbing stuck to its hairless skin.

"Hold 'im, Danny!" shouted Moody, who was back on his feet. "Just buy me a second!" He reached into coat for his trunk and dropped it onto the ground. The strongbox immediately expanded to its full size.

But the Auror did not even get the chance to command it. Harry realized it belatedly: Danny could not possibly hold back the creature. Not with his injured legs.

The beast suddenly dropped onto all fours. Danny barely had time to yell before he was yanked into the air. He flew over the beast like a stone fired from a slingshot. Moody held out his arms—to catch Danny or to ward him off, Harry was not sure. Either way, it didn't work. The two crashed into each other and were thrown onto the ground in a heap, wands flying from their hands.

Before Harry could raise his own wand to defend himself or rush to pull his friends up, a clicking noise caught his attention. He turned to the see the beast extracting the spider web from its face. It was clicking its pincers experimentally, and when it was satisfied it locked eyes again with Harry.

Those soul-consuming eyes. Harry felt the weight settle once again on his chest. He could not move. The scent of the beast was overwhelming—dark and deep and rich as blood.

As if from the bottom of a deep well, he heard Moody shouting at him: "Harry! Harry, open the fourth compartment! The fourth!"

It took a supreme effort to take a step forward. Harry felt like he was knee-deep in molasses. Before him, the beast crouched low, jaws and pincers wide open in welcome.

_"Four, Harry!" _screamed Moody._ "Hit the side and shout Four!"_

Harry flung himself onto the trunk's lid. Fighting the pressure on his chest, he filled his lungs with air.

The beast leaped.

Harry knocked his fist at the side of the trunk. "_Four!_"

For a split-second, he thought he was too late. His heart stopped when those jaws came for his head—he found himself staring into the deep darkness of that monstrous throat, and his lungs caught its revolting, fetid breath.

Then the lid sprang open and knocked him flat on his back. Both his cry of surprise and the beast's roar were lost in the sudden howl of rushing air.

A tornado had come shrieking out of Moody's trunk, sucking up the mist like a storm drain consuming water. It caught the monster in mid-leap and dragged it high into the air. Harry lay still and watched, amazed, as the pillar of cloud spun the fiend round and round, higher and higher, until it was just a black speck against the blue.

Soon after, the rushing wind died away, and the air was still and clear of mist.

Moody was at Harry's side at an instant, pulling him up by the arm. "You hurt?" he asked. Harry shook his head, not trusting his tongue to work just yet.

Danny stumbled towards them, clutching his shoulder. "Moody," he gasped. "Mind telling us what the hell that was?"

"The north wind," said the Auror. "A part of it, anyway."

"And why on earth would you put a part of the north wind in your trunk?"

"In the off-chance I needed to blow a two-ton monster away in a hurry. Any more stupid questions?" He shook Harry by the shoulder. "Can you stand, lad?"

Harry felt his heart slowing down. His throat burned and his tongue felt like he had been licking sand. He took several gulps of air before saying, "I can. Could…could I have some water, please?"

Moody uncapped his hip flask and passed it to Harry, who drank gratefully.

"That…thing," said Danny, "it's him?"

Harry nodded. "It WAS Michael Dunn. Now it's something else. And it's come for me. The Dark Lord knows." He looked at his friends in turn. "Somehow he knows I'm out here. Why else would he send it?"

Moody nodded. "Then we'd better get moving. We've got to get through that bog before sunset and find Flamel."

"What's the rush?" Danny asked. "You got rid of the damn thing, didn't you?"

Moody raised a warning finger. "No corpse, not dead. Good words to live by. Now let's get out of here."

* * *

With Moody in the lead, they entered the swamp without further delay, pushing aside the reeds and weeds and watching every step they took. The bog was enormous. A hundred yards of muddy black water, lined with clumps of grass and moss, stretched in all directions before vanishing into the morning haze. The soupy ground teemed with tiny insects. Withered trees rose from the damp soil like skeletal hands. The air stank of mud and rotting wood. Some places seemed dry enough to walk upon, but the reeds made them difficult to find. 

Not fifteen minutes into the swamp, Harry was thanking his lucky stars that Moody was his guide. The ground seemed solid enough in places, but as the old man demonstrated with a stick, one step forward and he would find his foot plunging through the deceptive layer of moss and straight into muddy water. And if he were unfortunate enough to trip into it, well, the bog would have sucked him straight down, and that would be the end of his little quest.

But Moody's eye deftly picked out which parts were safe to step on, and soon they were leaping from one clump of dry land to another (_Like frogs on lily-pads_, Harry thought, suppressing a laugh). Sometimes these places were too small for more than one person, and Moody had to jump to the next spot before Harry or Danny could follow.

None of this meant that they moved quickly. One or twice, Moody would slip or misstep, and his leg would sink into the muck up to his knee. The first time it happened to his peg leg, and he pulled himself out without a problem. The second time his other leg sank all the way to his knee and when he pulled it out he was minus a boot. The old man uttered a stream of curses at it, then turned around and kept moving. The two boys neither cared nor dared to laugh.

Danny was worse off. As time passed it seemed to Harry he was having a harder time walking. The fight must've worsened his injuries, he realized. Gone was the Duomancer's easy, over-confident gait; Danny would limp along, favoring one leg then the other. His lips were pale and tightly pressed. Once his leap came up short and he fell sprawling into the mud. Harry immediately pulled him out and sat him up. There was a dazed look in Danny's eyes. The mud on his legs teemed with wriggly things.

"We…we have to change your bandages," said Harry, who felt sick in spite of himself. They cleaned Danny up as best they could before putting him on the shield again. But as the shield moved slowly, this reduced their speed.

The haze vanished as the morning wore on, and Harry saw something that gave him hope. In the very direction they were heading, the horizon was a dark green line. Trees. Solid ground.

"Just need to get past those trees," wheezed Moody, "and we're at Lake Mab. Just a little further, lads." And they pressed on as fast as they could manage, their eyes always drawn to that green horizon.

The swamp, however, did not want to let them go just yet. Solid ground became smaller and harder to find. Four times they came to a dead end, and had to turn back and cast around for a different route.

"Feels like we're in the world's largest rat maze," muttered Danny, shifting his legs in his seat.

Harry had to agree, and worried about the time. By now it was mid-afternoon, and the sun was on its way down to the western hills. Moody was good at finding their way, but not even he could work in the dark.

The hours slid by, and the green horizon inched closer.

By sunset, they had reached a particularly large piece of solid ground. A lone tree, rotten and moss-covered, stood as its single sentinel. Here, Moody called for a halt.

The trees were tantalizingly close now, perhaps less than fifty yards. But it was fifty yards of dark, still water, fed by the river that meandered out of the trees. There was not a single solid piece in sight.

"Brilliant," said Danny. "Bloody brilliant. I suppose we'll be taking a dip, then?"

"If we have to, we will," said Moody. "We can build a fire and get dry when we make it to the other side."

Harry turned his gaze at them, then at himself. They were all covered in mud, with bits of grass and reeds clinging to their legs as added bonus. With a spear and mask, they might as well be hunting crocodiles for some primitive tribe.

"I think we need another breather then," he said. He was weary, both in body and spirit. How much more of this could he take?

In a repeat of their previous nights, they leaned against the dead tree, facing separate directions. Moody took out his Heat Stone again and lit a candle on it. It was nearly dark now. The western hills were turning gold as they swallowed the sun, and the reeds and trees around them were blurring with shadows. Or maybe that was just from the fatigue and hunger.

"Think we're still being followed?" Harry asked no one in particular.

"I hope to God not," said Moody unhelpfully. "I'd go half a mile before dropping dead, I think." He looked slightly ashamed of admitting that.

"I hope Flamel has a well-stocked larder." Danny said. "I could use some real food. Like smoked salmon and seasoned ham and a bit of bacon."

"I doubt he'd get much outside of civilization," said Moody. "But even a rotting turnip sounds good about now."

"A man can dream, can't he?" replied Danny. "I'd ask if he has venison, or lamb, or pheasant, or…"

"Duck," said Moody. "Juicy, roasted, Peking duck."

"Steak," Harry joined in. "And some mashed potatoes."

"Yum," agreed Danny. "And to drink, some brandy."

Moody nodded. "Rum."

"Pumpkin juice," said Harry.

"And for dessert," Danny went on, "I'd like some apple pie with whipped cream on top."

"A pineapple, sliced into eight," said Moody.

Harry's voice sank to a whisper. "Creampuffins."

They were silent for a time, watching their surroundings with weary eyes. Not for the first time, Harry wondered how much weight he'd lost. They had only been traveling for a handful of days, but already he felt like skin and bones. _One northeastern gust and I'll end up back Hillsdale_, he thought, and covered his mouth to stifle a giggle.

But…suppose they never found Nicholas Flamel? What then? Would they have to walk all the way to Hogwarts? How long would that take? A month? Two months? Harry imagined himself trudging through a layer of snow, reciting the places he'd have to pass on his way north: Manchester, Middlesbrough, New Castle Upon Tyne, Glasgow…

_Stop it, you ninny! _He shook his head angrily. _This line of thinking's going to drive you insane. _But the phrase stuck in his mind like some hellish last song. Manchester, Middlesbrough, New Castle Upon Tyne, Glasgow… Manchester, Middlesbrough, New Castle Upon Tyne, Glasgow—

"Did you hear that?" Moody said.

Harry's eyes snapped open—he had no memory of closing them. Suddenly alert, he looked wildly around him. It was cold and misty and dark. Too dark.

"What? What is it?"

Moody sat with his head cocked to one side. "I don't know." He stood up, and turned. For some reason he could not understand, Harry was chilled to see him facing the direction they came from.

Danny's voice came from the other side of the tree, sounding flat and tense. "You see anything?"

Moody did not speak for a long time. Then he said, "It comes and goes, but I'm sure of it. Two pinpricks of light that make up its eyes." He pulled out his wand. "It's here."

As if to confirm it, they heard its cry: the shriek of a banshee, the roar of a jungle cat.

It was as if a cold hand reached into Harry's stomach and twisted his insides. His skin crawled with invisible insects. "No," he said, leaping to his feet. "No, it can't be! It can't have survived that fall!"

"Maybe it knows how to land on its feet," said Danny, who had also picked himself up.

They turned southwest. Harry could see it. Two tiny orbs of moonlight and a shadow in the mist. It was moving slowly, swimming through the mud.

Danny had taken out his wands, but he held them down. "What do we do, Moody? Curses can't stop it."

For a while, it seemed Moody was out of ideas. He cast about for a minute before his gaze landed on the tree itself.

"Stand back!" he said. He raised his wand and brought it down, like he was chopping with an invisible sword. He sliced at the air twice more horizontally, then vertically.

Harry heard the creak and snap of wood as the tree they had been leaning on split in three long pieces. Moody sliced at it again and more wood was cut away, leaving a sharp end on each piece.

Harry turned his head to look for the beast. Those white orbs were closer now, perhaps two dozen yards away. He could hear its labored breathing as it pushed through the mud, and despite the stench of the swamp he could caught the scent of disease and death.

Its eyes watched him. Somehow that was the worst thing of all—how the beast seemed to have eyes only for him.

"Help me with this!" said Moody, grabbing onto one of the makeshift spears. The three of them hauled the wood to Moody's trunk, where they propped them up diagonally, pointed ends facing the oncoming beast. To Harry, they looked like missiles in a launcher.

"You still remember that Propulsion Charm, Danny?" asked Moody.

Danny understood quickly. Grinning, he hunkered down near the first stick and aimed the sharpened end at the beast.

The old Auror turned to Harry. "Listen, lad, take the shield and make for the trees. Leave the fighting to us."

Harry's eyes widened. "What? But—"

"No buts. You're susceptible to it somehow. I've seen your face when you look at it. You can't let it get to you."

The cry sounded again, even closer now. Fear clutching at his heart, Harry turned to look, but Moody grabbed his shoulder to stop him.

"I'm not leaving you here!" said Harry hotly.

Danny spoke up. "Didn't I tell you not to pull any of that hero crap on me? Get going before I kick you off this island."

"But—"

"Harry!" bellowed Moody. "We can't fight and protect you at the same time! Go!"

Harry hesitated but a moment, then hurried to Danny's side and picked up the shield.

"Don't miss," he said.

There was a smile in Danny's voice. "Don't worry."

Feeling much like a coward, Harry made for the water. He stepped onto the shield with one foot and gently pushed off the island with the other. The shield began to float across the black water.

He turned to watch his friends. He could not see the beast, but he could see the hunched figures of Danny and Moody, concentrating on the enemy. "On my mark," said the old man. "Aim for the chest, then, the mouth, and when it gets close, the eyes."

Harry turned to look at the line of trees. He was some thirty yards away from them. He figured if the monster made it past Moody and Danny, he might be able to climb a tree and hide out for a while, at least until help arrived.

"NOW!"

Harry looked back. Danny had tapped the blunt end of the first spear, and it burst into a spray of fireworks. The spear flew out of the boy's grasp, then Harry heard a grunt of pain.

"YEAH!" he heard Danny whoop. But Harry also heard the sickening swirl of mud as the beast kept coming. The spear did not stop it.

"AGAIN!" shouted Moody.

Danny launched the second spear—the sparks threw the outline of his body into sharp relief. There came the sound of crunching wood, then he heard Moody curse.

"The last one!" cried the Auror. "Aim for the eyes, boy!"

For no reason at all, the chant came back to Harry's mind. _Manchester,__ Middlesbrough__, New Castle __Upon __Tyne, __Glasgow_… He glanced back at the trees…it was still too far for him to risk swimming for it.

"Don't let it reach the ground!" he heard Moody cry. "Fire!"

But at the same time, he heard the beast let out an ear-splitting roar. He turned back just in time to see a black hulk leaping through the air, over Moody and Danny's heads, to land with a splash on the other side of the island.

Harry felt himself freezing again. The beast rose out of the water, like the ghost of some prehistoric animal. A broken piece of a spear protruded from its chest, another piece caught between its mandibles. It spat it away like a toothpick, then lunged forward.

"Don't look at it, Harry!" he heard Moody cry. Harry tore his eyes away from his pursuer just as a volley of curses landed on its back. The line of trees was not far now, perhaps just a dozen yards away. But the beast was moving faster than his little floating vessel. He could hear its labored breathing somewhere close behind him. Its growls sent unholy chills down his spine. Somewhere he heard twin splashes as his friends leaped in after him. But they were too far away now, too far to do any good. It was down to him and his beast.

Perhaps out of sheer panic, Harry took a gamble. Within ten yards of dry land, he stood up on the shield and dove into the water. His feet found the ground and he surfaced immediately. He was lucky—it wasn't as deep as he thought, but it was like swimming in thick soup. Pushing hard against the silt, he waded through the last stretch towards the trees.

Now that he was in the water, the beast seemed to double its efforts. Its grunts filled Harry's mind, as did its horrible stench. Terror filled his heart to almost an ecstasy. _Manchester,__ Middlesbrough, __New Castle__ Upon __Tyne, __Glasgow_…

He made it to land, wet and coughing. He only had enough strength to crawl forward a few more feet. "Manchester," he croaked, unaware he'd spoken out loud. "Middlesbrough…New Castle…"

There was a loud splash behind him, and a huge paw planted itself left of his head.

He froze. He had no choice. He turned to look.

The hound was upon him. Those glaring, moon-like eyes shone down, illuminating his face with a pale, hellish light. Its fetid breath came like a dark wind from its open mouth. Strands of saliva webbed its teeth and greased its mandibles. It seemed to be grinning.

Harry could not close his eyes. Not even when the beast opened its mandibles and reared back to strike at his neck.

A blast of thunder sounded from somewhere close by, and Harry blinked at a sudden bright flash. Then he found himself staring up at the stars and the real moon.

Harry sat up quickly and crawled backwards on his elbows. The beast lay near his feet in a twitching ball of agony. It cried and snorted like a sick pig. The side of its head was roasted and smoking.

There came a second shot and something flew out from the beast's face—its lower jaw, trailing some black liquid that did not look like blood.

The monster gave one more savage cry, its mandibles quivering like the tines of a tuning fork, before collapsing onto the mud.

Harry turned at the sound of running feet. Someone came sprinting out of the trees behind him—an old man with a hunter's cap and a green sleeveless vest. In his hands he held something that looked like a rifle, except that its muzzle flared out like a trumpet.

Seemingly without fear, the old man stepped up to the beast and put one foot against its head. Harry winced as he fired into its chest, once, twice, three times. The shots sounded like grenades, and each one flared a different color.

Soon the beast's twitching ceased, and the light went out of its eyes.

The stranger poked the beast's flank with the barrel of his gun, then nodded in satisfaction. He turned to Harry. "That was a tad too close for comfort. Are you all right?"

Harry could not speak, his tongue felt too large for his head. He only nodded numbly as the old man slung his rifle on his shoulder and approached him.

"I've been expecting you for some time now," he said, as he held out his hand. "I'm glad to meet you at last, Harry Potter. Albus Dumbledore will be pleased."

Harry accepted his hand, and the old man pulled him up with unexpected strength. He sported a thin gray mustache and a well-trimmed beard. Large ears stuck out from the sides of his head. Though his skin was pocked and wrinkled, it glowed in the moonlight with some unknown vitality.

"Who are you?" asked Harry.

The old man smiled, removed his cap, and bowed. "Nicholas Flamel, at your service."

_To be continued_

_Author's Notes: _

_1. The Doom Hound is based largely on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's "The Hound of the Baskervilles." I just crossed it with an Umber Hulk, for those who know what that is. I figured if the Baskervilles ever had a hound that looked like this, they'd have coronaries apiece._

_2. It's two months to the wedding, but things haven't gone very well for us money-wise. Our budget plans didn't work out due to sheer misfortune. And so I'd like to ask you guys for help. How? Carefully read the paragraph below:_

_"Picture us living in a one-bedroom apartment, with an area of at least 42 sq. meters. It is close to the train station, but not in a terribly busy area of the city. The drone of traffic can hardly be heard because the place is high above the road, about twelve stories or more. The building is safe because of competent security guards at the entrance._

_The room is airy and well-lit by wide windows, which are framed by white curtains. A wooden counter marks the boundary between the kitchen and the living room/dining room. We have a ref, a small stove, and lots of pots and pans. There is a little space in the back for a washing machine. A side door opens to a clean bathroom with a shower stall and a polished floor._

_The room is decorated with an Asian motif: a low table with cushions instead of chairs in the living room, and a low flat bed—a huge futon, actually—in the bedroom. There are two large book cases (overflowing with books), paintings on the walls, and lamps for soft lighting._

_It is a comfortable and quiet living space for two writers in love, and a little cat."_

_There. I hope that with enough people envisioning the apartment we want, we will eventually get it. Please see us living in this place in two months time. Positive thinking is a powerful thing._

_3. I'm starting a poll! Review and let me know who your favorite character is (It won't influence the story though—I'm just curious)._

_4. I'm pretty tired of action scenes now, so let's have something quieter. We'll see some familiar faces next time, so I hope to see you guys for..._

_Chapter XXI: "Heavenly Shades of Night are Falling"_


	21. Heavenly Shades of Night are Falling

**The Phoenix** **and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter XXI: Heavenly Shades of Night are Falling**

"Ginny…would you sing for me?"

Ginny tore her gaze away from the practicing Quidditch players to goggle at Jamie. The homunculus wore a serious expression on his face; those green eyes, startling as ever, watched her with a singular curiosity. Once, the image of Harry gazing at her with that expression would have been enough to make her cheeks flame and her toes curl.

Now it plain weirded her out.

"Sing?" she repeated.

"A song." The homunculus nodded and held up his book, _The Little Mermaid_. "Any song. You know, the way the mermaids did in the story. I remember you liked to sing, but I've never personally heard you."

They had been sitting together on the bleachers beneath the early morning sun, watching the Gryffindor team at practice. She was taking a break after a grueling session on evasive maneuvers, and her stomach had not quite settled yet from all those sudden switches in speed as she avoided the Bludger. Katie and the rest of the Chasers were now putting Ron through his paces as Keeper, hurling the Quaffle over and over at the goals from different angles. She was supposed to help by watching and taking note of any holes in his technique. Needless to say, singing had been the last thing on her mind.

The worst of it was…a vast majority of songs she knew were love songs. And she certainly did NOT feel comfortable singing any of them to Jamie.

To distract him, she asked, "How many times have you read that story, anyway?"

Jamie grinned as he held up five fingers. "I can't get it out of my mind," he said. "It's simply too fascinating! The underwater world, the mermaid bargaining so she could be with her prince, the daughters of the air…I want to keep reading it over and over, till I know it all by heart."

Ginny giggled at how worked up he was. "And did you even bother to go through the rest of the list I gave you?"

"Oh, don't worry," he said, resting the book on his lap. "I've read six other books. But this one's the best so far, I can't put it down!"

"I bet you couldn't. Didn't I tell you it was a good story?"

"Yes, thanks so much. So, I guess this one's really meant to show me what love is, right?"

Ginny's mouth dropped open. "Huh?"

The homunculus propped his elbows on the book, lacing his fingers together. "Putting another's life before your own—isn't that love? Rather than taking the life of the prince so she could live three hundred years, the mermaid let herself turn into sea foam."

"Oh…I suppose," she replied, and wondered if she'll ever get used to Jamie's frankness about these matters. It was often amusing, but always disconcerting.

"And she became one of the daughters of the air," said the homunculus reverently, "to one day receive an immortal soul…it's incredible that love can do something like that."

"Um, Jamie," Ginny said, "it's just a story. It's fiction. And the situation is a little, uh, extreme?"

"But didn't you say stories held a little bit of truth? If you were in her position, wouldn't you do the same thing?"

'What a question,' thought Ginny, looking away. She didn't think to answer him, but her mind lingered on the idea. Would she trade her life to save Harry's? Oh, she did not even have to think about the answer: it sprung from somewhere deep in her gut, as if waiting all along for the question to be asked. That she could answer "yes" gave her a profound sense of pride. Because of it, she was as close to Harry as either Ron or Hermione.

When she looked back to find the homunculus still staring at her with those curious eyes, her mouth formed an exasperated moue. "I don't know how to answer that question, Jamie. I've never been in her position."

"You've never been in love?"

"_I've never been a mermaid!_ Now can we _please _talk about something else?"

The homunculus drew back sheepishly. Then, remembering something, he asked, "Alright, would you mind singing a song?"

Ginny, who had been trying to concentrate on the practice again, threw her hands up in surrender. "Fine! Alright! But you name the song. I can't think of anything right now."

For a moment, she thought this would shut him up. But he answered almost immediately.

"The one in your book. The one about the forest animals when winter comes. I like that one."

She stared back at him. He'd been listening to _that_? It was such a melancholy song, and one she'd been playing often recently, for reasons she did not quite understand.

She sighed and wondered why she could never find it in herself to tell him to just go away. 'He must be growing on me,' she thought, shaking her head.

"Fine then. Just one stanza, alright?"

Smiling broadly, Jamie shifted closer to listen. Leaning back on her hands, Ginny turned her eyes up to the sky and drew a deep breath. The words spilled out easily.

_Must the winter come so soon?_

_Night after night, I hear the hungry deer_

_Wander weeping in the wood_

_And from his house of brittle bark_

_Hoots the frozen owl._

_Must the winter come so soon?_

_Here in this forest, neither dawn nor sunset_

_Marks the passing of the days_

_It is a long winter here._

_Must the winter come so soon?_

Only at the last line did Ginny realize she had been so caught up in the melody that she ended up singing the entire thing. She let the last high note drift, like a falling leaf, down to soft fade. Silence greeted her at first, suddenly broken by the homunculus's loud applause.

"That was brilliant!" he exclaimed.

"Shhhh! Keep it down, will you?" Ginny hissed. "People are staring at us!"

"I'm not surprised! You're a terrific singer! You sounded exactly like the book!"

In spite of herself, Ginny felt the corners of her mouth tilting up, just a little. "Oh shut up," she muttered. "Just because I sound like my journal doesn't mean I'm any good, you know."

"You weren't just good! You were spectacular! I myself can't…" he paused, rubbing the side of his head. "Well, would you…do you think you could…"

"Could what?"

"Do you think you could teach me that song?"

Ginny gaped at him. "Teach? You?"

"Well, yeah! I'd really like to learn, it'd be a great experience! I promise I'll be a good student. What do you think?"

_Merlin help me_, thought Ginny. _What next? Dance lessons? Fashion tips?_

Before she could respond, however, movement at the entrance of the bleachers distracted her. It was Hermione, bushy hair in disarray, looking as if she'd just run a marathon. Her eyes scanned the pitch, then fell upon Ginny.

Ginny stood up to wave at her, partly because she was glad for the distraction, partly because she'd been half-waiting for it—if Hermione came rushing to look for her, it most likely meant that she had news about Harry.

True enough, when Hermione came up to her, Ginny could see the excitement in her sparkling eyes and in the flush of her cheeks. When Hermione hugged her, Ginny felt a sudden rush of infectious energy, and found herself trembling.

"What happened?" Ginny demanded. "Did you hear something from Professor Dumbledore?"

Hermione drew back, seemingly unable to decide between nodding or shaking her head. "No, no, no, no. Let's get Ron down here first so he can hear this too. I don't think I can…oh, hello." Her eyes fell upon the homunculus, who was gazing at them with marked interest.

Thinking quickly, Ginny reached into her bag and fished out a jar. "Say, Jamie, would you like to try some Bertie Bott's Every-Flavor Beans?"

Jamie's eyes eagerly latched onto the jar of sweets. "Would I? Sure! Thanks a lot! I remember eating these but I've never personally…" He accepted the jar and busied himself uncapping it.

"I swear," muttered Ginny as he led Hermione to the bottom bleachers. "Has a mind like a sponge, but can only soak up one thing at a time."

It took a minute of waving and shouting to get Ron's attention. He veered away from the goals and hovered over their heads. "What's up with you two? You look like you've just won the lottery."

"Get down here, you git!" said Ginny. "Hermione's got news! From Dumbledore!"

Ron came down so fast he nearly crashed into the bleachers. Stumbling off of his racing broom, he reached for Hermione. "Where is he?" he demanded, and Ginny had to remind him to lower his voice. "What's happened?"

Hermione grasped his shoulders. "They've found him!" she said, close to tears. "Oh Ron, they've found Harry! He's finally safe!"

Ginny felt something swell inside her chest. It felt too huge to be simply called relief; it felt like a cleansing flood was washing away all her fears, and she swayed where she stood. Ron's eyes widened, and he grabbed Hermione in a tight embrace that lifted her off her feet. Hermione squealed.

"Where?" he asked breathlessly. "Where is he?"

"Put me down first, I can't talk…oh, Ron, you'll never believe this! He's staying at the safe house of Nicholas Flamel!"

He drew back to stare at her. "Flamel? Not the alchemist Flamel?"

"How many Nicholas Flamels are there in the world?"

"But I thought he's…"

"Still alive, apparently! After all this time! And on our side, can you believe it? He's keeping Harry safe until help arrives. He contacted Professor Dumbledore just this morning."

Ginny reached for Hermione's arm. "So they'll bring him back quickly? We'll get to see him soon?"

"Sooner than you think!" Hermione replied, beaming at her. "Listen, make sure you free up your schedules for this evening. Professor Dumbledore wants us all in his office at seven o'clock. _He says we'll get to talk to Harry._"

"But the Black Barrier…" Ron protested.

"Professor Dumbledore promised we'd be able to contact him. I mean, Flamel spoke to him this morning, didn't he? They must've found a way!"

The cleansing flood inside of Ginny turned into a deluge of excitement, and the ensuing dizziness made her sit down. Two words kept ringing in her head…_Harry_…_safe_…

"Hermione's right," she suddenly said. "If there's anyone in the world who could figure out how to get around the Barrier, it'd be Professor Dumbledore."

They would have talked further, had Katie not started signaling angrily at Ron to get back to work. They hurriedly promised to meet each other at the appointed time.

Ginny's eyes were on her feet as she made her way back to her original seat. She saw nothing at all. Her thoughts were in another time altogether, a time when she could see with her own eyes that Harry was indeed safe and sound.

_I'm going to see him_, she thought, eyes glimmering. _I'm going to hear his voice._

It would be hours from now—never had twilight seemed so far away! She was bursting to tell someone, anyone. Jamie, of course…

The thought of the homunculus snapped her back to reality. How would he take the news of Harry's return? Would he be upset at having to return to his jar so soon?

Ginny turned her eyes to look at the homunculus, and what she saw made her gasp.

"Jamie, what are you _doing_?"

Jamie's head jerked up at the sound of her voice. His eyes were squinted and watery, and he wiped at them with his sleeve. Steam was rising out of his ears and his mouth was a crooked, squirming line.

"I was…looking for the…cherry-flavoured one," he rasped, "kept getting…the chili peppers."

Ginny rushed to her backpack and pulled out her water canister, which Jamie accepted like a gift from heaven. It took several gulps for his ears to stop smoking, and only then did Ginny think to laugh.

"Can't I leave you alone for five minutes?" she giggled.

The homunculus wiped his mouth with his sleeve and looked sheepish again. "I'm sorry to be such a bother."

"If I had a Knut for each time you said that…" She paused, her smile fading. "Listen, Jamie, there's something I have to tell you."

She sat down beside him and repeated all that Hermione had told her. She spoke softly, not sure how he was going to take the news. Jamie did not once interrupt her. When she finished, she sat back and watched for his reaction.

The homunculus turned away, staring at nothing in particular. His eyes grew very still and his face reflected nothing of what he was thinking. For once, Ginny realized with some apprehension, he got something about Harry exactly right.

"Jamie? Are you alright?"

He took a long moment before responding. "I guess I don't have a lot of time left, do I?"

She was surprised at how it hurt to see him so sad, and regretted ever saying anything. "I'm sorry," she said, laying a hand on his arm. The word sounded ineffectual.

A smile lit up his face at her sympathy. "Don't be sorry. You've got nothing to be sorry for." He turned to face her completely. "You were the one who made this life so interesting for me. I'd never have discovered so much about it otherwise, nor would I have gotten to enjoy so much of it. I'm very grateful to you."

"I kind of feel bad about it now," she murmured. "I think it made more difficult for you in the end. I don't want you to regret anything."

He shook his head, still smiling. "I'm a homunculus," he said. "Regret is for humans."

Tilting his head to the side, he went on, "Seeing as I've a little time left…would you teach me how to sing?"

Ginny gaped at him, her hand dropping away from his arm. "Are you serious? You still want to do that?"

Jamie nodded.

She frowned at him. "You realize that that is very un-Harry."

He wilted a little, but nodded again.

She shut her eyes in surrender. "Oh, alright," she sighed. "I'll do it, if that'll make you happy."

"That's something you do quite well," he replied, smiling, leaving Ginny to wonder what he was referring to.

* * *

As he sat near the bow of the flat-bottomed boat, Harry kept his eyes on the man who claimed to be Nicholas Flamel. He did this partially out of habit, having gone through enough traps and double-crosses on this journey to almost convince him to adopt Moody's "trust no one" attitude. A different part of him could not believe he was actually safe now, and expected that this was some sort of elaborate ruse and a whole army of Death Eaters was waiting at the end of this little jaunt, never mind what Moody's Foe-Glass told them. 

But a better part of him was also intensely curious about his rescuer. Everything he had heard about Flamel had been so fantastical—genius alchemist, creator of the Philosopher's Stone, oldest living man on earth—that Harry imagined him a second Dumbledore. Harry could not reconcile this image with that of the old man who now slouched against the stern of the boat, looking so mundane as to be peasant-like. Flamel was bald save for swatches of pale hair above his ears. He had a pear-shaped nose and ears that stuck out like cup handles. His heavily lined face seemed kind in a grandfatherly way, and he had fingers that looked like long knobby twigs. With his shabby leather jacket lined with dozens of pockets, dirty white linen shirt and baggy trousers, he looked like nothing more than a hunter on the way back from a satisfying ramble in the woods.

Moody and Danny, who sat on either side of the boat, also kept watch on Flamel, and Harry wagered they were thinking the same things he was. Danny's eyes often strayed to the rifle-like device on the floor of the boat, the weapon that ended the threat of Voldemort's beast.

If Flamel was aware of their stares, he made no indication of it. He hummed through his nose, making his whiskery moustache twitch, as he steered with the rudder, navigating through the tiny, meandering river that would eventually lead to Lake Mab and his home. The boat propelled itself through the inky black water in near silence. Harry had been wondering how it did so, until a glance at the rear of the vessel showed that the corners tapered into long wooden flaps that paddled through the water. He wondered if Flamel designed the vessel himself.

No one spoke. The only sounds were the ripple of water, the creak of the wood of the boat, and an occasional plop as a nut or a twig fell into the river from the canopy of leaves above them.

At length, Moody said, "Mr. Flamel, if you'd explain something?"

"Mmm?"

"I still don't understand why you could get to contact Professor Dumbledore, while we can't do so."

Flamel seemed unperturbed by the question. When he replied, Harry heard a slight trace of the French accent in his voice. "It is not a matter of 'can't,' my friend. You may communicate with Albus Dumbledore yourselves, if you wish. But you may find it difficult, all things considered."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you see…" Flamel slipped his long fingers into his jacket pocket, and a look of consternation came over his face. He released the rudder a moment and started fiddling through the rest of his pockets. He pulled out a hodgepodge of items: fish hooks, string, pebbles, a string of pebbles, a thimble, a harmonica, a spyglass, and even what seemed to Harry a tiny crystal elephant. After several minutes of fruitless searching, he gave a loud "Aha!" and fished out what he was looking for.

"Is that…a whistle?" asked Harry, peering at the object on his hand.

"No, no, my young friend," Flamel replied, holding up the tiny tube in his fingers. "This is nothing more than a hollow piece of metal. Its length, weight or shape hardly matters. The interesting thing about it is the material itself." He raised it up for all of them to see. "It is made of…ah…what was it? Invertible? No. Irreversible? No. Intraconvertible?"

He tapped his bald forehead with the tube and squeezed his eyes shut. "Invaluable, Incorruptible, Intolerable…Come on now, Nick, it's at the edge of your brain…Aha! Indivisible metal! You've heard of such things? No? It is simple: the particles of this kind of metal resonate with the same amount of energy no matter what their state or location…"

He paused at their blank faces. "Ah, forgive me. I am an old hand in alchemy, and I love it to a fault. When I talk about it I too often descend into mini-lectures. Let me put it simply: If I were to divide a sheet of Indivisible alloy into two and separate them by a hundred miles, and I strike one sheet with a hammer, you can be sure that the other sheet would banging as loudly as the one in my possession.

"Dumbledore and I have devised our own little code, and when I wish to send him a message I simply strike it out on this little tube, and Dumbledore's own device receives it loud and clear." He turned to Moody. "So that, my friend, is the answer to your question. You will have to learn our code first before you speak with our mutual friend. On the other hand, there are far better ways than this one."

"Are there?"

"Indeed. I beg you to be patient, Alastor Moody, and to trust me, though by your reputation I can tell that that is not in your nature."

"That's how I survived long enough to get a reputation."

"Nevertheless, I ask you to trust me. For Lake Mab is my territory. And while you are my guests here, I swear on my life that no harm will come to you." His eyes switched to the front of the boat. "Ah, we have reached the lake."

Harry followed his gaze. They had neared a thick wall of vines hanging from an overhead branch; the boat pushed through the thin coiling ropes, out of the tunnel and into sunshine.

"Lovely morning," commented Flamel, and Harry found himself agreeing. Lake Mab was small, perhaps a fifth of the size of Hogwarts's own lake, but no less beautiful. The water gently lapped at its rocky shores, trees shed burgundy leaves that stained the mirror surface of the lake, and kites scoured its waters in search of fish. The sun was brighter than he could ever remember since the Black Barrier had settled over the land. It flashed silver and gold on the water, bright enough to sting the eyes. If Harry harbored any doubts at all that he had truly been rescued, the sight made them melt away like the last of the morning mist.

His eyes fell on Danny, and Harry realized that his friend had not spoken at all during their entire trip. One look at the other boy's face told him Danny was worse off than he was: his face was gaunt and drained of color, and his eyes were out of focus.

"You alright?" asked Harry, leaning towards him.

Danny seemed to wake from some inner dream. He only nodded in reply.

"You live out here alone, Mr. Flamel?" grunted Moody.

"Indeed, except for my butler Carbuncle." He paused, and his voice fell a little when he spoke again. "My wife, Perenelle, passed away two years ago."

Moody tilted his head respectfully. Harry, feeling this was not enough, said, "I'm sorry."

Flamel smiled at him. "She was never sorry, you know. She lived to be 644. She had very little to be sorry about."

A short silence fell on the group, then Moody spoke up again. "What I'm interested in knowing, actually, is the security of this place. I don't mean to be blunt, but someone who's lived as long as you have must know a thing or two about the world, so I trust you have managed to keep yourself safe from prying eyes?"

Flamel laughed good-naturedly. "You do rightly to be concerned, Mr. Moody, considering the importance of the person whom you are protecting. Very well, I shall explain to put you at ease.

"Lake Mab is surrounded by ancient magic. It has been here longer than either Dumbledore or I. Its purpose has remained unknown, though we are certain that it has long been abandoned by…by, uh…by its enchanter, whatever her name was.

"Firstly, the entire Lake is Unplottable, and it is impossible to Apparate here directly. Secondly, the trees surrounding the lake have been enchanted with a permanent and potent Misdirection Charm. Simply put, should a person wander in through one side of the forest, they will eventually end up on the other side, without even catching a glimpse of the lake. There are only a few known safe entry points into Lake Mab, one of which is the river we have entered from.

"When Perenelle and I decided to make our retirement home here, we added a few more security measures to ensure our privacy would remain intact. Privacy comes at a premium when you've created a stone that prolongs life and turns lead into gold. Truth be told, our old home in France had been turned upside-down, and our 'graves' have been ransacked beyond all counting. Here, at least, we won't have any problems staying out of sight. No one comes barging in while I'm sunning myself on the porch.

"When you arrived through the marsh—an extremely dangerous path, by the way, and I don't recommend you trying it again—you set off some of our early warning systems, and thus I was able to find you quickly."

"Thanks for you help," Harry began. "If you hadn't arrived when you did…"

"Think nothing of it. I owe Dumbledore a great debt for his wisdom. Just…don't tell anyone who helped you out, eh?"

The boat glided to the other side of the lake, and Harry spotted a massive oak tree near the shore. It rose above the roof a two-storey wooden cottage that had apparently been built around its huge trunk. The leafy branches loomed over the water like a mass of clouds, and as they neared the little wooden dock it rained crisp tan leaves, as if celebrating their arrival.

"We designed this home ourselves," Flamel said with a touch of pride. "The oak we planted in 1835, when we first discovered this place. When we came here to retire, we decided to build our home right on this spot. At first we wanted a tree house, but that meant cutting off some branches and hurting the oak. So instead we built the cottage around the tree, and installed steps to the second floor around the trunk. Ah, there's Carbuncle now."

A squat figure was waiting for them on the dock. From a distance Harry thought it was only a tree stump, but when they drifted closer he saw it was actually a kind of spiral shell, some four feet high, colored bronze, and shining with a metallic hue. A few thin protrusions emerged from its side. When they closed the distance to the dock, all four of these protrusions extended and waved at them like arms. Flamel stood up and flung a coil of rope at the creature, which caught it with a pincer at the end of its arm. Thin spider-like metal legs emerged from the base of the shell, and the creature, which now looked like a very large hermit crab, skittered to the nearest pole to secure the boat. When they were docked, the creature extended its arms towards Flamel, who thanked it as he disembarked.

"This is Carbuncle," he said, motioning to the creature, which gave three high whistles in reply. "Though in reality an automaton, Carbuncle prefers to be referred to as a 'he.' Carbuncle, meet Alastor Moody, his godson Daniel Oaks, and Harry Potter of Hogwarts."

Two eyestalks telescoped out of the base of the shell and briefly scanned the group, then Carbuncle extended his arms help them onto the dock.

"He can understand us?" asked Moody, accepting the spindly arm.

"Carbuncle is a state-of-the-art Goblin automaton," replied Flamel. "I understand he was originally built to be a miner, but when the tunnel he was working in collapsed and buried his masters he was left to his own devices. Perenelle and I found him after he had dug himself out. The goblin government wanted him back of course, but he sought asylum in our country, so we took him in. It took quite a bit of retraining before he could buttle properly, but now he is the equivalent of five servants. He will attend to your every need, I assure you."

"Thanks," said Harry as Carbuncle helped him onto the dock. The automaton whistled his reply.

"This way please," said Flamel, shouldering his rifle. He led them up the curving cobblestone path to the cottage. His mechanical butler skittered ahead to open the door.

The cottage was made of interlocking logs, precisely layered. Stretching up from the navy blue shingles was a tall steel chimney that reached high into the boughs of the tree. Pale crystal windows lined the upper floor, and the front door was made of bolted ironwood and carved with arabesque designs. Carbuncle stepped aside to make way for them.

"Welcome to my home," said Flamel, ushering them in.

The living room was carpeted from wall to wall, and filled with furniture Harry had seen only in picture books of the medieval age. Several paintings and what seemed to be Indian tapestries lined the walls. One side, however, was bricked away from floor to ceiling by several stacks of books (Harry expected them to be a treasury of magical and alchemical tomes, and was greatly surprised to find an assortment of spy novels, murder mysteries, penny dreadfuls, and even a couple of bodice-rippers). Two cushy velvet chairs crouched before the fireplace, and a fire burned cheerfully at the hearth. The entire place looked so clean and cozy that Harry self-consciously scuffed his feet at the welcome mat to wipe as much mud as he could off of his shoes.

Flamel led them to an adjoining room, and Harry saw that the alchemist had told the truth: they had indeed built the house around the tree. A wooden staircase coiled around the massive trunk, and some of the lower branches were even supporting the second floor. Just beyond the staircase, Harry could make out a dining room.

"I know you are tired," said Flamel, eyeing them in turn. "I suggest you wash up and get some sleep. I have prepared the guest room already. Carbuncle will show you the way. Come down when you wake and I will have a meal prepared for you.

"Leave your questions for later. For now, you have earned your rest."

They followed the automaton up the staircase without further delay. Perhaps it was the thought of a soft, proper bed that did it, but with every step Harry felt his fatigue returning. His legs felt heavier, and he barely made it to the end of the short hall without stumbling.

Their room was tiny, but no less cozy than the ones they'd already seen. To Harry, it was like a glimpse of heaven: two feather beds on gold-colored frames and a makeshift one on the floor, filled with small fluffy pillows. Little cabinets stood on bedsides, and on the far wall a crystal window overlooked the backyard.

Danny wasted no time. He tottered over to the mattress on the floor and fell facedown onto the pillows.

Moody stumped over to a side door and opened it, revealing a small bathroom and a three robes hanging from pegs on the door. "Clean water," he murmured reverentially. It must've taken some self-control on his part to turn to Harry and say, "You first, lad. Danny and I will get ourselves settled."

When Harry emerged from the bathroom, wearing a clean linen robe and feeling very much like had been reborn, he found his two bodyguards fast asleep, with Moody (mud-crusted clothes and all) having taken up the bed on the wall. So much for Constant Vigilance.

Harry gave a wan, tired smile and sat down on the bed on the far side. Though his limbs ached and his body cried out for sleep, he willed himself to stay awake just a few moments. He wanted to soak in this sensation, this feeling that he had just strayed out from a long, dark tunnel into daylight. Once again, he was surrounded by the comforts he had taken for granted while in Hogwarts: the feel of sheets beneath his skin, the scent of freshly washed clothes, a soft warm bed. He wanted to revel in it, just for a little while.

But he could not quite manage it. For some reason he still felt unsettled, like he had left behind some unfinished business. He thought back to the twisted trees in Hillsdale, bent out of shape for so long by the wind that they could no longer stood upright. Perhaps that was how he was deep inside, twisted so much by his troubles he could no longer find peace.

'Maybe in a little while, I'll be better,' he thought. 'After a little rest.'

He laid his head down on the pillow and closed his eyes. Sleep claimed him before he knew it.

_

* * *

_

_  
He was standing at the edge of a precipice, in a place that looked very familiar. Something was bidding him to look down, down into the darkness where lay the fruits of his actions. _Look at me_, it said, _look at what you have done

_Harry kept his gaze averted, staring at the sun that was slowly vanishing behind the yellow trees. But he could not ignore the voice in the gorge. It rose as a whisper in the wind, clear and unmistakable. Irian was calling to him. _

"_I was like you," he said, "and one day you will be like me."_

Harry twisted where he lay and nearly fell off of the bed. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to lie still and waited for his beating heart to slow. Then he sat up to look around.

The light from the window has changed. 'It must be late in the afternoon now,' he thought, looking about. The other beds were empty. Before Harry could wonder where Moody and Danny were, he heard the tap running in the adjoining bathroom, and a muffled conversation going on downstairs.

Harry lay back down as the water stopped running and the familiar _clunk_ of a peg-leg sounded on the bathroom floor. He did not feel like talking to anyone, so he lay on his side and pretended to be asleep.

The bathroom door opened and he heard Moody step out.

"You sleep well?" he asked.

Harry thought of not answering, but gave up and turned around. "How'd you know I was awake?"

Moody, who now wore his own white linen robe, sat down on his own bed. His gray grizzled hair was combed away from his face and he was freshly shaved. "Your breathing changed," he said with a shrug. "Feeling alright? You look like someone just clocked you over the head a couple of times."

"I'm okay," Harry muttered, and ignored the unconvinced expression on Moody's face. "What time is it? And where's Danny?"

"Quarter past four. The milksop's downstairs, chatting with Flamel." Moody's magical eye did not zoom around as it usually did, which meant the old Auror was more or less confident about their security. On the other hand, it was scrutinizing Harry, which was always discomforting.

"You don't seem to trust him a lot, Flamel," remarked Harry.

Moody shrugged. "Can't be too careful. Flamel seems to be on the level with us, but I'll only know I can trust him once I manage to contact Dumbledore."

Laughter sounded from somewhere below. "Danny doesn't seem to have that problem," said Harry.

Moody only shook his head in disgust.

They were quiet now, and though Moody had ceased to watch him, Harry still felt uncomfortable in the silence. He did not want to think of his dream. There had to be something to get his mind off of it.

His mind quickly alighted on one unfinished conversation.

"Mr. Moody?"

"Yeah?"

"I wanted to ask you a bit more…about being an Auror."

Moody eased himself onto the bed again, grunting as he relished its softness. "What do you want to know?"

"How do you go about…well, you know…becoming one?"

Moody did not even seem to consider the question. "You get nothing below Exceeds Expectations in school, you keep a clean record, you graduate and apply at the Ministry. Then the Aurors give you a screening, and if they think you got what it takes, they'll take you in for training. That's common knowledge."

"Well, yes it is," agreed Harry, who was waiting to get a few tips that would give him an edge. "I was wondering about that training Aurors get. What's it like?"

"Defense Against the Dark Arts mostly, on a deeper, more practical level. Then there's law enforcement and combat magic training. Study. Lots of study."

"Oh," replied Harry, somewhat disappointed. "Is that all?"

"No," said the old man, turning to him. His magical eye whirled around once before focusing on Harry. "There's more. Much, much more."

He sat up, swinging his legs down the side of the bed. His peg leg came down in a heavy clunk, like the sound of a gavel. Taking this as a signal, Harry sat up as well and faced him.

"You learn to master yourself," said Moody in hushed tones, "and in doing so, you learn to master the evil in men. You learn to spot the wrong sort of person quickly, and you learn to sense if they mean you harm. You learn to be alert even in your sleep. You learn how to track people unseen, and how to eavesdrop on their plots and secrets. You learn to move without a sound and vanish without a trace. You learn when to make your move and when to lie in wait, how to spot weaknesses in your opponents and defeat them using just a fraction of your strength."

"Most of all, you learn what it means to give your life over to something greater than yourself. You learn to serve society and uphold the ways of the wizard. You learn the Creed, which all true Aurors follow. You learn it and keep it in your heart till you breathe your last."

"How do the Aurors study these things?" whispered Harry. "Tell me."

"Through training, of course, and tests."

Harry leaned closer. "What sort of tests?"

Moody drew a deep breath. "At first, a lot like the kinds you face in Hogwarts. But as you move on, it changes. You are made to make choices in given situations. You'll be questioned, and your life as an Auror depends on your answers."

"What kind of questions?"

The old man gave a little smile. "You want a sample?"

"Well…" Harry had to be honest. He was far too intrigued now to stop pursuing this conversation. "Yes, please tell me."

Moody stared at him without blinking. "What did the voice from the ravine tell you?'

Harry felt the air in his lungs freeze. For a moment he sat speechless, staring into the old man's hard gaze.

"Nothing," Harry said at last. "It told me nothing."

Moody looked at him patiently. "If you heard a voice, lad, it couldn't have said nothing."

Angry and ashamed, Harry looked out the window. Sunlight streamed through the leaves of a nearby tree, and above the rustling leaves he could hear the chatter of squirrels.

"I've been meaning to bring it up for some time," said Moody, "and I wouldn't have brought it up if I didn't think it was important."

Finally, Harry relented. "It said…it said I'd never have any peace without revenge."

Moody considered this for a moment.

"I don't understand what it meant," added Harry.

"I think you do," said Moody. "All this time, I felt like I missed something while I was out cold."

"You said the Deceiver told nothing but lies."

"I said the Deceiver twists the truth into a weapon it can use against you."

"Well, what does it matter what a ghost tells me?"

"Do you believe what it said?"

To this, Harry found himself without a reply.

"Harry," said Moody, his gaze sharp and piercing. "What's this about? Did something happen?"

Harry could not find it in himself to answer. He kept his eyes on the window, gazing out onto the meadow beyond.

"Harry, I might be able to help, but I can't unless you tell me what happened."

"I…I'm not even sure what happened," Harry answered. "There…there was this huge fight. Danny was battling Death Eaters, and one of them—Irian, the one who tortured you—he tried to kill you. And I stopped him. And then everything just…happened."

Moody was very still, waiting for him to continue. All of sudden, Harry felt like a prisoner about to confess to a crime. When he spoke again, his head was low, and his mouth was dry as parchment.

"Irian. He f-fell. Fell off the cliff."

For a moment, Moody only watched him. Then he said, "You feel this was your fault?"

"I cast a Disarming Curse at him, and it broke through his Wandshield. He fell."

"I see."

"I've never killed before. Never."

"Yes, I know. And if you could help it, you'd never do so. Am I right?"

Harry nodded.

"That, lad, is what separates you from the likes of Gallowbraid and Voldemort. You ever thought of that?"

"…No."

"Well, you should," Moody grunted. "You were fighting in a war out there, lad. No one will blame you for fighting for your life. No one will fault you for saving mine. Your friends, they're not going to change their minds about you just because of what happened. They'll say, 'Better him than you, Harry.' You realize that, don't you?"

Harry said nothing.

"Try and forget about this, lad."

After a long moment, Harry said, "I don't think I can."

The old man frowned. "What's the matter?"

"I don't think I can forget because…because there was this moment…"

He swallowed hard and held the Auror's gaze. He felt his inside go hollow, as if all the air had left his body, and his voice sank into a whisper.

"There was this moment," he said, "when I saw Irian was afraid…there was this moment when we were both sure he'd lost. And right then, I realized how much I wanted kill him. I wanted to kill him and the moment I did…

"…I liked it."

The words seemed to hang in the air, filling a terrible silence. Neither man nor boy spoke, and as the minutes marched by, Harry felt like a criminal waiting to be sentenced.

'I wonder what he thinks of me now that he knows this side of me,' he thought. 'Did I really say I wanted to be an Auror? Did I really?'

It was an eternity before Moody spoke.

"You have no idea," he said, "no idea at all at how many times, in how many battles, I've felt quite the same thing."

Harry gaped at him. The tightness in his chest vanished.

"These battles we face," Moody went on, "they wound us something terrible. We take wounds on our bodies, we take them on our souls. But I'll tell you this, lad, take it from a veteran. If you let it, any wound can heal. It'll just be another scar."

Again, Harry nodded.

"Let this pass, Harry. Don't beat yourself up over it. You're alive, we all are, and that's what the people at home are rooting for. No one, not me, not Danny, not Dumbledore, not your friends, will change their mind of you because of this. Understand?"

"Yes."

"You will find no peace without revenge. That's what the voice told you, right?"

"Yes."

"I cannot help you with this, lad," said Moody. "This is a personal battle. What you heard affected you, and I'd wager this is a consequence of that. All I can tell you is, even if what the voice said is true, it's the truth used against you. The great lie of your heart."

"So what does that mean?" Harry demanded. "That it's wrong to avenge the death of my parents? That it's wrong for me to fight to protect my friends? That I shouldn't go after Voldemort? That sounds worse than anything an old ghost has to say to me."

"I didn't say anything of the sort," replied Moody. "Damn Voldemort and all his followers, if you ask me. World's better off without them. But…" his eyes gazed intently at Harry, "if you're the one to send him to hell, Harry,_don't go with him_. That's what saying."

Moody bent forward, grasping his shoulder. His grip was firm, but the weight of his hand was warm and comforting.

"Above all things, and Auror must keep his heart. This you must believe: you are a good young man, Harry. If you hold true to it, you may have the heart of an Auror. Don't waste your life hating someone, or pursuing vengeance. Grindelwald and his ilk pawned their hearts and left the world in shambles. Don't take that road. Don't let what you've heard or what happened change you. Above everything, you and I must believe in our better natures. You are a good lad. Remember that, and you will never fall."

Again, Harry nodded. Moody's words comforted him, if only a little. He could still recall that chilling fury that rose in him when he shot Irian, as if his heart had burned with cold fire. How it had filled him then, how he had welcomed it; and how empty and guilty he felt now that it had deserted him. He wondered what Ron and Hermione would think, if they ever find out about this. 'No,' he thought, 'they'll never find out, because I'll never tell. This will be one scar of mine they'll never see.'

And he wondered, too, where this sadness was coming from: that he had something to hide from his friends, or that he felt he had to hide it at all.

* * *

When Harry and Moody finally came down the spiral steps, they heard Flamel's voice drifting up from the dining room. 

"I call it a Foe-Hammer. I fashioned it from a blunderbuss, the precursor to what Muggles would call a 'gun.' Instead of bullets, the Foe-Hammer fires concentrated bursts of magical energy—very nasty at close range. "

They found Danny and Flamel sitting together at the table. Danny, who seemed in good spirits as he dangled a goblet of red wine in his hand, was hunched forward in a chair with his long limbs crossed beneath him. He was watching Flamel, who sat close by, talking rapidly while holding up the strange rifle he'd used to kill the beast.

"Simply charge it up, aim and squeeze the trigger," he said, handing the Foe-Hammer to Danny. "Don't worry, it's depleted. Used up all the charges in the fight this morning."

Despite this, Danny hefted and aimed it with the air of a boy who'd been allowed to play with an expensive toy. Perhaps it was the avid look in his eyes that made Moody clear his throat. Danny tilted back his head to peer at them upside-down. "Oi!" he exclaimed. "Finally awake!"

Flamel stood up, gesturing. "Come in, come in! Daniel and I were just having afternoon tea—well, breakfast, in your case."

Moody hobbled into the dining room with Harry in tow. "Mr. Flamel..." he began, but the alchemist raised his hand.

"Please. Call me Nick. After 600-odd years of it, one tires of formality. And we are all allies here."

"Right," grunted Moody. "When do we get to talk to Dumbledore?"

"Ah, yes. Please, make yourselves comfortable first." He gestured to the rest of the mahogany chairs. Danny handed him back the Foe-Hammer, which Flamel propped up against the nearby wall.

"You seem lively enough," said Harry, grinning at Danny as they sat down. "You looked like Death himself when we brought you in."

"You kidding me?" Danny grabbed his goblet. "A good six-hour nap and bit of liquid sin, I'm ready to rumble from here till sunset."

Flamel had the table set for four. In the middle was a basket of toasted bread. Beside it was a large bowl of golden, steaming soup, a jar of strawberry jam, and a plate of what could only be smoked salmon. He felt the insides of his mouth melting at the sight of the spread. Before he knew it his hand was reaching for a piece of bread, but Flamel gently caught his wrist.

"Wait, please," he said. "From what I've heard, you've had nothing to eat for several days but nuts and fruit. To eat so much at once will certainly make you ill. Please, have some soup first to warm your stomach."

Moody seemed convinced by this logic and served soup for their bowls. The broth had bits of onion and was covered by a thick layer of mozzarella cheese. Harry felt his stomach growling as he ate, and only with some cajoling from Flamel did he manage to eat slowly. It was not long before the growling was tamed, and warmth radiated from his stomach to the rest of his body.

"This is absolutely terrific," he muttered.

"That's what I told him," said Danny, munching down on another piece of toast. "An alchemist and a cook—is there anything you can't do?"

Flamel gave a modest smile. "If there is, I can't remember it."

Moody, who was sniffing at a piece of salmon on his fork, finally succumbed and gobbled it down. "About Dumbledore…"

"Ah yes, thank you for reminding me. I have scheduled a meeting with him at seven-thirty this evening. We shall go down to the lake and have ourselves a chat with my old friend."

"How are we going to do that?"

"I would gladly explain, but it would be easier to show you the process itself."

As the sun began to set in the western mountains, Flamel handed out some cloaks and lanterns and led them out the front door. "We shall hie ourselves over to the shores of the lake," he said, "and I'll show you magic not many wizards can boast of knowing. Carbuncle! Let's be off! And mind you bring the ingredients!"

A brief whistle sounded as Carbuncle emerged from the front door, bearing a burlap bag in the crook of one slim limb. He settled behind them, ready to follow.

Danny turned to Flamel, jerking a thumb at the automaton. "I've been wondering: what does he run on?"

"Dragon dung," came the alchemist's prompt reply. "A sadly underestimated bio-fuel."

They followed Flamel down the path of his house. A breeze played amongst the leaves of the massive oak, and over the water a kite called for an end to another day of fishing. The light was quickly quitting the sky, and save for one swath of gold the lake was the color of coal. At first Harry thought he imagined it, but soon realized it was true—the mushrooms at the side of the stone path were starting to glow as the evening drew closer.

Flamel suddenly stopped. "So that's why it's so blasted dark!" He took a minute to fish out a lighter and tend to each of their lamps, including his own.

"You don't use a wand?" asked Moody, which prompted Harry to realize: he had not seen Flamel use a wand at all.

"I would if I could," Flamel said, "but I'm afraid I am one of what you English refer to as 'Squibs.'"

They all goggled at him. Danny cried, "You're_not—_!"

Flamel merely smiled and slipped the lighter back into his pocket.

"But the boat—and the house—and the gun—"

"My dear boy, while I may not be able to cast spells or work enchantments, I can certainly do a fair share of alchemy and potion-making. In my youth I believed that anything doable with wizardry was doable with alchemy, and after a few hundred years I think I managed to make a good case of it."

He led them on, following the shore of the lake, until they came to a place where the reeds were few, and the ground was flat and soft with grass. "This will do," said Flamel, and Carbuncle set the bag down.

"As I mentioned, it is not common knowledge that between Lake Mab and Hogwarts stretches a ley line, a single invisible string of dormant energy. Dumbledore performed some research on ley lines early on in our partnership and discovered a feature that's rather useful, in a limited sense. If one knows how, one can send light and sound through the entire length of an existing line.

"Carbuncle, the quicksilver and the stardust, if you please."

The automaton reached into the bag, pulled out a goatskin flask and a velvet pouch, and set them at Flamel's feet.

"First, create a hard, reflective surface." The alchemist picked up the flask, opened it, and cast its contents upon the lake. The substance scattered upon the water, creating a shining sheen. In a trice, Flamel scooped up the pouch and threw all of its contents upon the quicksilver.

Harry caught his breath as he watched the glittering cloak of stardust fall upon the water. A million shades of light scattered before him, filling his eyes with colors of the rainbow and the aurora, and others he could not name. Where they settled, the quicksilver hardened into glass. The dust itself did not fade away, but settled into subtler shades, glittering faintly, as if the glass were reflecting a sky full of stars.

"Trade me for a troll's baby," muttered Danny. "I haven't seen anything that pretty since I tried smoking—uh, nevermind." He turned abruptly away from Moody's magical eye.

Flamel rubbed his hands. "Second, tap into the ley line using a metal instrument. Carbuncle, if you please."

The automaton gave a low, depressed whistle.

The old man gave him a disapproving stare. "Oh, don't be such a baby. You won't rust with that finish I gave you."

Carbuncle gave another whistle, sounding almost like "phooey," before scampering onto the glass. A drill emerged from his lower body, which buzzed to life and bit into the glass with a tiny shriek. A gout of muddy water spurted up from the hole.

"Now then," said Flamel, "with Carbuncle as our link, we may attempt contact. Dumbledore should have set up something similar in Hogwarts." He knelt close to the edge of the lake. "Hello? Nicholas Flamel here. Can anyone hear me?"

Harry and his companions crowded around Flamel and stared into the mirror's surface. At first, they saw only their own faces staring back at them, but in a moment the image swam and wavered, and a sudden shock passed through Harry as he saw the kindly face of the old headmaster.

"Professor Dumbledore!" cried Harry, falling to his knees. He leaned over the glass, as if to make sure he was not seeing some kind of illusion. There was no mistake. It was Dumbledore's face peering back at him, framed by the familiar crisscrossing rafters of the headmaster's office ceiling. The headmaster's eyes twinkled like the stardust in the mirror.

"Good evening, Harry," he said. "At last we meet again, though it be only through a basin of frozen water. Good evening to you, Nicholas. Alastor, Daniel, I am relieved beyond measure to see you both alive and well."

Moody (with some effort) also got down on his knee. "Professor. It feels like centuries."

"We're alive and well, alright," laughed Daniel. "Getting nearly killed did my health a lot of good."

Dumbledore smiled at this. "You have confronted each challenge and emerged triumphant. Your deeds have been nothing less than heroic, all three of you."

"Of course, and you can thank me in terms of Galle—" Danny doubled over when Moody's backhand found the soft area of his gut.

"Professor," said Harry. "I've got it. The Crystal Cage…" He reached into his shirt to grasp the bauble around his neck, as if to reassure himself it was still there.

"Yes, Harry, I know. Alastor told me of your success and of how bravely you achieved it. It is a story worth telling, once you return to Hogwarts."

The words rang loud in Harry's ears. Return to Hogwarts. No words could possibly sound sweeter.

"How will I get home, sir?" he asked. "Is someone going to…?"

"Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, along with a coterie of Order members, are en route to Lake Mab even as we speak. They will be there the day after tomorrow, if not sooner, and will take you by broom to just outside the Hogwarts grounds."

Harry felt his blood throbbing in excitement, so much that he didn't hear the rest of what Dumbledore said. "Sorry, sir, what was that again?"

"We do not have a lot of time, Harry," Dumbledore said, "so for now I shall content myself that, though injured, you and your friends are alright and safe in the care of Nicholas. For now there are some things I need to ask you.

"About the Crystal Cage. Have you found anything useful about it? Has it reacted to your presence in any way?"

Harry shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir. I've no idea how it works. When I first touched it, it started glowing. Like it knew who I was, or something. But after that, I've only seen it flicker now and then. I really don't know what to do with it."

"I see. Did you experience anything else?"

Harry paused, then swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. "I've…had a few dreams, sir, when I saw _her_."

Dumbledore's face seemed to freeze in the mirror. "Dahlia?"

"Yes, sir. I…I'm sure it was her. She was tall and gaunt and her skin was colored gray…" Harry stopped short of admitting the dreams made him nervous, but he was sure his demeanor betrayed it.

Dumbledore pinched his brow in thought. "This is unexpected. It may be that she…no, that's not possible."

Moody spoke up. "You don't suppose this Cimmerian Sorceress can project herself out of her prison, do you?"

"I'm not certain, Alastor," replied Dumbledore. "From what I understand, the magic of the Cage should prevent her from doing so. Yet if Harry is seeing her in his dreams, that is the only explanation I can think of. It may be that, for some reason, she's trying to contact Harry."

The thought sent a shiver down Harry's spine.

"In any case," continued Dumbledore, "there will be time to study this further. For now, Harry, would you do me a favor?"

"Sir?"

"Tomorrow morning, please turn the Crystal Cage over to Mr. Flamel for a while. He will attempt to study it, and tell us what he can."

Harry thought this over. "Alright," he said, turning to Flamel. "I have to warn you: it's like it has a mind of its own. It burns the person it doesn't want touching it."

"I'll be careful," said Flamel. "I'm no stranger to dangerous materials."

Dumbledore's lips broke into a smile. "Fear not, Harry. Your possession will be in good hands with Nicholas Flamel, whom by mutual contract I am obligated to say is the greatest magical researcher in the wizarding world."

Flamel returned his smile. "A fine compliment to receive from Albus Dumbledore, whom by mutual contract I am obligated to refer to as the wizarding world's finest magical researcher."

"Well and good," said Dumbledore. "Harry, the world's second-best magical researcher has a few more things to discuss with the world's second-best magical researcher. I have another basin handy and we shall take our conversation to a separate link. Alastor, Daniel, please join us. Meanwhile, Harry, I realize you must have a lot of questions about what has currently been happening in the world while you were away. There are some people here who are more than willing to bring you up to speed."

Smiling, Dumbledore moved aside, and Nicholas, Moody and Danny followed to another part of the mirror. Harry didn't have long to wait before a pair of familiar faces popped into view.

"HARRY!" Ron and Hermione cried in unison, and Harry drew back in surprise.

"Harry, you git!" stormed Ron. "What the hell's been keeping you?"

"Oh, Harry!" said Hermione. "Are you really okay? You're not still sick with Corsulus, are you?"

"How much longer till you get here?"

"You look so thin! Haven't you been eating well? Are you getting enough rest?"

"Harry?"

Harry did not answer for a moment. He was trying to soak in the sight of these two faces, which more than once he thought he'd never see again. His heart felt so full, overflowing with conflicting emotions. He had never felt gladder to see them, and at the same time, a twisting sensation in his stomach told him he was not quite ready for this.

He took a deep breath to steady himself and leaned forward again. He smiled.

"Ron. Hermione."

His two friends watched him, and were surprised at the sudden tears standing in his eyes.

"S-sorry," Harry muttered, rubbing at them. "It's been so long. This feels like a dream."

Hermione's eyes were reddening too. "Harry, we've missed you so much. You've no idea how scared we were. I thought we'd never see you—"

"I never thought that!" Ron declared, leaning forward so that his face took up most of the space of the basin. "I always knew you'd be okay. I knew you'd make it back."

Harry smiled. "Thanks. I'd give anything to be there right now. I've…this…this trip, it hasn't been easy."

"Hey, you're the one who wanted to go at it alone."

"Yeah," agreed Harry, and reflected that he wanted it no other way. "Yeah, that's me alright."

This time Hermione's face took up most of the screen. "Are you okay, Harry? You're not ill anymore?"

"No, someone took care of that."

"Are you wounded? Do you hurt anywhere?"

"I was wounded many times. But I'm fine now." He paused. "I've got a few more scars."

Ron asked, "But you got what you came for, right?"

Harry reached into his shirt and pulled out the Crystal Cage. A flicker of fear went through him, but the stone remained cold and dark and silent.

Ron and Hermione watched the red jewel in his hand. "Doesn't look like much, does it?" Ron remarked.

"Appearances _can _be deceiving, Ron," Hermione said.

"I was just expecting something more impressive, considering Harry risked his life for it and all."

"Right," Hermione sniffed. "I'm sure Professor Dumbledore would know how to help you use it, Harry. The sooner you get back here, the better."

Harry did not want to dwell on the subject of the Cage—it seemed to lead to dark corners in his mind he had no wish to visit. He tucked the stone back into his shirt and said, "What's been going on?"

"Don't get to read the news much, do you?" asked Ron, grinning.

"No. Tell me everything."

They did the best they could to get him abreast of current events. They explained how the Ministry turned against the Order of the Phoenix and that it was Fudge behind the order to erect the Black Barrier. They told him how the fighting had spread throughout southern Britain, making it far more difficult to conceal their world from Muggles.

"There've been some refugees coming in," said Hermione. "They've no place to go, so Dumbledore opened Hogwarts up for them. We've converted some of the classrooms into shelters. Things have been going from bad to worse, overall."

"I guess you can say I'm a refugee," Ron said. His lean face was tightened and pale. "There…there's been some fighting in Surrey, Harry."

Anxiety wormed its way into Harry's heart. "What about the Burrow?" he asked.

"The whole of Ottery St. Catchpole's been evacuated. We won't be going back there for a while." Ron paused, face expressionless. "I don't even know if our house is still standing."

Hermione put a comforting hand on Ron's shoulder and said nothing. Harry imagined the Burrow destroyed, and his mind turned away in horror. _No_, he told himself. _There's no proof of that, not yet._

To shift the topic, he asked, "What about Hagrid? Any word?"

His heart sank further as his friends shook their heads. "We've been waiting forever," Ron said.

"What about the Dementors? Haven't they moved from Azkaban yet?"

"No, Harry," said Hermione. "We haven't heard anything about them either. It's a little unnerving, actually. I wonder when Voldemort—oh, come off it, Ron—is going mobilize them."

"Look," said Ron, "maybe You-Know-Who won't use them. Maybe they're too hard to control, or something."

"Ron, that's about as likely as you swearing off chocolate because it's too rich."

Harry laughed, and though he did quietly, it broke the tension around them. The sound of it made his friends smile.

"Get back home as soon as possible, Harry," Hermione said. "Take care of yourself till then, okay?"

"Wait, you're going?" Harry asked.

"We are?" Ron gazed quizzically at Hermione.

"There's someone else who'd like to see you, Harry," she said, giving Ron an irritated glance. "Just give me a moment."

She vanished from the glass, and Ron's eyes lit up in understanding. "Oh, yeah…sorry, mate. We'll talk more when you get back. I want to hear all about your trip, 'kay?"

"W-wait, you don't really have to go now, do you?" Harry said. There was some discussion going on in the background on Ron's side. Hermione sounded like she was cajoling someone.

Ron said, "Well…I wouldn't mind staying at all—"

"_Ron_!" cried Hermione.

"—but methinks you've got some stuff to attend to, so I won't keep you busy. Anyway, yeah, you owe us butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, right? So you'd better—"

Ron never finished his sentence, because Hermione's hand reached in from the side of the glass and yanked him away by the sleeve. For a long moment, Harry stared at the ceiling of the headmaster's office, wondering who wanted to talk to him, and the reason behind the hesitation.

It all came clear when another face flowed across the mirror, and he found himself staring into a familiar pair of cinnamon brown eyes.

"Ginny?" He was barely aware of her name falling from his lips.

"Hi, Harry," she said, smiling tentatively at him. "Been a while, hasn't it?"

Harry managed to nod, feeling as if his tongue had deserted him. He could not be certain, but he guessed he was in twice the turmoil he felt the moment he saw Ron and Hermione again. Ginny. Here. Why?

"Can…can you hear me?" she asked, when he didn't answer.

"Yes," he murmured. "I can hear you just fine."

"That's good. I was wondering…I mean, I'm….h-how are you feeling?" Pause. "Sorry. I just realized they must've asked you that ten million—"

"I'm fine, Ginny," Harry said. "I'm recovering. They're taking care of me here."

"Oh. That's good."

"Yes. Yes it is."

"Yes. Well." Ginny tucked her hair behind her ear, and Harry felt a familiar pang somewhere inside of him.

_You have no idea what you do to me, do you?_

"You look so thin," she remarked.

"I've nothing to go on the last few days but nuts and berries."

"It must've been so hard for you."

"I've walked further than I ever had in my life. I wouldn't be surprised if I dropped ten pants sizes."

She grinned. "Mum would scream bloody murder once she finds out. She'll probably lock you up in a room and force-feed you till you got your weight back."

Harry grinned too.

"You're doing alright?" he asked her.

"Yes, I'm doing the best I can. Although…well…things haven't been the same since you—"

"Oi, Ginny!" came Ron's voice from somewhere outside. "Don't forget to tell Harry how the Gryffindor team's doing! Two-to-one says we're going to win against Huffle—"

Ron's sentence ended in a muffled grunt. Ginny was favoring her brother an annoyed look, but it soon vanished in a tumble of laughter. "It might interest you to know that despite their height gap, Hermione has no trouble getting Ron into a headlock."

Before he knew it, Harry found himself laughing with her, for the first time in months. It had been so long and he had missed it.

He wondered what Ginny would have said, had Ron let her finish.

When they both recovered, Ginny was still smiling at him. Their parting had lacked the warmth he craved, but it was here now, in her voice and in her eyes. This was somehow a different Ginny from the one he left behind. He wondered if something had happened while he was gone.

"I'm glad you're alive, Harry," she told him.

He leaned closer. "I'm glad I'm alive to hear that."

The sun had slid below the horizon, a curtain of night trailing behind it. The orange and gold hues had all but vanished from the waters of the lake, and a gentle breeze set the reeds whispering about him.

"I can see the stars on your side," said Ginny, and Harry looked up. True enough, the evening star hung bright in the deepening sky, and as he stared longer the faint twinkles of her siblings pushed through the shade of the Barrier.

He looked down again at Ginny. The glittering stars embedded in the glass surrounded her, seemingly caught in her hair. She was smiling still, and a faint tinge of red was rising in her cheeks. He remembered, fondly, that some of her freckles seemed to vanish when she blushed.

"You were saying about yourself?' asked Harry (and realized his voice had somehow softened). "How are you?"

"I'm okay," she said. "I'm helping out here as best I can. But it's been a lot harder, with the war going on." She lowered her head slightly, remembering.

"Yeah," said Harry, thinking about the Burrow. "I know what you mean. I'm sorry to hear about Ottery St. Catchpole…"

"I trust Dumbledore and the Order," she said. "We'll get our house back, I'm sure of it."

Harry nodded, admiring her bravery. "So, you tried out for Quidditch after all."

Her face brightened. "I made Chaser. Katie pretty much declared it when she saw me fly."

"Congratulations, Ginny! Glad to hear it!"

Her smile widened at his words. "Thanks. It's great to be part of the team, even if, well…" She paused as if to choose her words carefully. "It's not quite the same team without you."

Harry did not know what to say for a few moments. Then he confessed, "I don't think I've been the same since I gave up Quidditch."

"You've never thought of…going back?"

"Many times," Harry replied. "But no, not for a while. I'm…you see…"

He grasped for words, and Ginny waited for him to continue. "It's complicated," he finally said.

She inclined her head, and lock of hair escaped from its place behind her ear. "You never did tell me, that day."

"Tell you what?" he asked.

"Back in February. If you enjoyed flying again."

Their encounter in the garden, a different place, a different twilight.

"I didn't really tell you a lot of things," he admitted, "and I wish I could undo what I did say to you." He paused, and said, "Ginny, I just want you to know: I didn't mean to hurt you, back then. I didn't mean to leave the way I did."

"It's alright, Harry," she said softly. She leaned closer, and that erring lock of hair lay in a tiny coil on the glass. "You _do_ believe me when I say it's alright, don't you? And that I want us to be friends again?"

Harry fell silent, watching her. Her gaze was soft and her mouth was kind, and it felt like a long winter going on inside of him was coming to an end. He wanted nothing more to let himself fall for her, the way he did back then, when she returned his glasses and he felt as if he were looking at her for the first time…

Fear snaked its way into his breast, and he drew back a little from the mirror.

Ginny seemed to sense the change in him. There was slightly bewildered, hurt look in her eyes. Harry turned away.

'Why am I afraid?' he angrily asked himself

_Because you can't be with her, _a voice answered inside of him. _You poor deluded fool. How can you, when you don't know where your future's headed? How can you, when you've got no idea if you're even going to live to see the end of this war? You've got nothing to offer her, except maybe every little dark detail of your life and every bit of danger you have to face. If it comes down to it, can you even protect her? You can barely protect yourself, if the last few days were anything to go on._

_You can't tell her anything. You can't even tell her you're afraid to tell her anything. You've got to do this on your own. Because she doesn't deserve any of this mess you call your life, Potter. She doesn't deserve to be hurt any worse. So forget it._

'It's the wise thing to do,' he realized. It's the smart play, never mind that it made him feel like a heel, like something that ought to be shoved into the gutter.

And still he could feel her eyes on him. He was waiting for her to retreat as she had before, to leave him now that he showed it was what he wanted. But from the corner of his eye, he saw her lean closer.

"Harry," she whispered, "please look at me."

He waited a long while before finally finding the courage to turn to her.

Her gaze was soft and peaceful, and there was a small smile on her lips. There was no trace of pain in her voice or on her lovely face when she spoke.

"I can wait."

He gazed back at her in amazement.

"I can wait for you," she said, putting a small hand on the surface of the glass. "I _will_ wait."

Harry felt something large and painful lodge in his throat. He did not know how to respond or if there was any way to respond; his heart was so full of things he could not begin to put into words. And he couldn't help himself. He, too, put his hand on the glass, atop her own.

He did not know how long they stayed there together, holding gazes, and imagining the heat of each other's hand. It felt like untold years, though it must have been only minutes. When his senses came back, Harry realized it was full dark around him. The only light he by could see came from Ginny's side, and her face was aglow in candlelight.

"Harry," came Flamel's gentle voice. Harry looked up to see the alchemist and his two companions standing a respectful distance away. "Harry, it's time to go. The enchantment will fade in a few moments."

Harry nodded, hiding his disappointment. He drew his hand away from the glass, as did Ginny.

Ron, Hermione, and Dumbledore crowded around her to say their goodbyes, and each wished him godspeed. He responded in kind, and would have said something more to Ginny, but at that moment the stardust ceased to twinkle and their faces vanished from the glass. Her cinnamon eyes were the last things he saw.

It took several minutes for Flamel to discover which pocket he had put his lighter. He cursed the darkness all the while he was hunting for it.

As they walked single file on the path back to the house, Harry chanced to look up at the night sky. Sure enough, the stars were there, a thousand flaring lights of hope despite the darkness of the Barrier. He thought of Hogwarts, of sitting in the sun with Ron and Hermione, a glass of butterbeer in his hands. And he thought of Ginny's smile, and her girlish giggle, and the gentle sweep of her hair as it fell from behind her freckled ear.

_I can wait._

Harry smiled to himself, at peace for the moment.

"One day," he promised himself. "One day."

_To be continued _

_Author's Notes: _

1. The title "_Heavenly Shades of Night are Falling"_ is the first line in the love song "_Twilight Time"_, sung by The Platters. It's also the title of a story from Stephen King's "_Heart in Atlantis", _and I'll forever be mad at him for beating me to it. I didn't really know why I picked "_Heavenly Shades…"_ until I started writing the chapter. Then it became plain to see. The chapters featuring Ginny happen during daytime and are always bright and sunny. The ones with Harry are filled with mist and shadow, and usually take place at night. When they meet for the first time after a long separation, it's during twilight, that brief, magical threshold between day and night. It mirrors precisely the current state of their relationship: half-way.

2. Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel and were real people. They lived in France back in the 1400s, in a house at 51 rue de Montmorency, Paris. Flamel was a master alchemist, but also a philanthropist, donating proceeds from his work to create hospitals and churches. His complaint about the ransacking of his house and "tomb" are not unfounded. I based his character here on an old professor of mine who is very dear to me.

3. I finished reading Neil Gaiman's "Stardust". The story was so beautiful, I believe it contributed to my writing here. So do yourself a favor. If you haven't read it, run, run, run to the local bookshop and get a copy.

4. I want to thank everyone who wrote and showed support for my dream of getting an apartment. I want to tell you about the miracle: because of our wedding gifts, we now have enough money to get any apartment we want, maybe even buy one. So, Readers, you have my utmost gratitude. You've given me more than I've asked, and I won't forget it.

When you hear from me next, I'll be wearing my wedding ring.

_Chapter XXII: The Long Goodbye_


	22. The Long Goodbye

**The Phoenix and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter XXII: The Long Goodbye**

Harry put on his slippers as quietly as he could, ignoring the low snore coming from the still form lying at the foot of his bed. Sprawled on his mattress, Danny was sleeping off last night's drinking spree with Flamel. After dinner the old alchemist had invited Danny to finish off the bottle of wine they had started on earlier, and perhaps sample a couple more he had kept in storage while they were at it. Danny's face took on a look Harry had only previously seen on Dudley whenever the latter set foot in a chocolate shop. Moody only clumped up the stairs in disgust.

The old man lay quietly in his bed now, though Harry could see that he still kept an active Dark Detector on the night table. For a moment he considered staying in bed a while longer, but the thought of his task today tugged at him like a child demanding attention. He had to meet with Flamel and turn over the Crystal Cage, to find a way to harness its latent power. Whatever that entailed.

Harry returned to the bedroom and quietly let himself out to the hall.

Sunlight and silence filled the house. Flamel was not at the kitchen, but a bowl of steaming porridge was set on the table. A queer whining noise came from the front of the house. Harry walked into the living room and peered out the window to see Carbuncle striding down the path on his spindly legs, blowing leaves into a pile with a nozzle protruding from his body. He wondered briefly if Carbuncle also did the laundry around here, and tried to imagine the automaton covered in soapsuds and making foghorn sounds over the prospect of rusting.

Harry backtracked to the kitchen and looked out the painted window of the back door. This time he saw the tiny form of Flamel hunched several feet away, over a small patch of brightly colored flowers.

Harry opened the door and walked toward Flamel. Like the rest of his home, Flamel kept his yard clean and well manicured. The low grass, which had not yet begun to brown, felt soft and pliant beneath Harry's feet. He almost felt like going barefoot to feel them beneath his toes. Only empty space separated the house from the flower patch. Harry wondered what Flamel would need all of it for.

The alchemist wore a thin white shirt, work boots, and a hat decked with sunflowers. He turned his head at Harry's approach. "Ah, there you are. Join me a minute, will you?"

He was kneeling beside an oval bed of assorted mums, daisies and pink tea roses, all in summer bloom. The flowers surrounded a little marble tablet, glowing so brightly beneath the sunshine Harry wondered why he did not notice it at first.

The inscription on the stone read:

PERENELLE FLAMEL

1350 – 1994

_Au revoir, ma chérie, ma vie_

Harry stepped back, moving out of the garden. "Sorry. I-I can come back when you're not busy."

"We can talk," Flamel said without raising his head. "I don't mind the company. If you like, you could water the flowers for me." He motioned to the orange watering can at the foot of the flowerbed.

Seeing no reason to refuse, Harry picked up the can and tipped it over the mums. He racked his brains for a halfway-interesting topic of conversation. But what do you say to someone who'd lived more than eight lifetimes?

"You have beautiful flowers," said Harry. _Brilliant_.

"Thank you," Flamel replied, smiling. "My wife, she loved roses. Especially this breed, the Monsieur Tillier. Spoke to them like they were her children." He began digging up the earth next to the flowerbed in preparation for planting more seeds. "For a while it took a lot of work keeping the forest animals from the flowerbed," he said, "but nowadays Carbuncle keeps them in line. He apparently shoots them with gobs of hot water from his rear nozzle. They soon got the message."

Harry joined in with his chuckling in lieu of having anything to say. He finally settled for, "I'm supposed to hand the Crystal over to you…"

"I remember," said Flamel. "I shall get to it as soon as I finish here."

"Oh, please, take as long as you need. I'm not rushing you," Harry paused. "I…have a lot of time now, I suppose."

Flamel smiled up at him. "Quite a change from the last few days, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "I was always running, barely getting any time to eat or sleep. And now I'm watering flowers. It feels strange to be just…waiting."

"It's the opposite for me. All I've had up till now was time. So I'm glad for the company."

"Yeah, I guess it's been kind of hard for you too, hasn't it?"

Flamel carefully buried the flower seeds in the hole he had dug up. "If you mean in terms of comfort, no, it hasn't been difficult. Once a week I have groceries sent here by owl—anonymously of course—and I have Carbuncle do most of the heavy chores. But of course, that's not what you mean. I have made life here comfortable, but comfort's such a useless thing when you've no one to share it with. It has not been easy living here without Perenelle."

Harry stopped short of slapping his forehead. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said…"

Flamel smiled at him. "I'm a great believer in the restorative power of talk. Of course, sometimes I overdo it. I wander in and out of conversations and eventually forget the original topic of discussion. Albus called me the most random person he had ever met. In fact…hmm…I've quite forgotten what we were talking about."

"Um, living alone."

"Right. I don't recommend it." His guffaw sent his whiskers shaking, a sight that made Harry smile.

"I never did thank you, you know," Flamel said afterwards, "for doing me and my wife a favor."

"What do you mean?"

"During your first year, you prevented Lord Voldemort from stealing the Philosopher's Stone. The whole affair made me realize the truth: the Stone was better off unmade, rather than be used for ill. So I agreed to have it destroyed."

Shock rippled through Harry. He had forgotten all about it, and it hadn't even occurred to him that his actions had the unintended consequence on two lives. "I don't know about that, sir. Destroying the Stone…that's your whole life's work gone. Not to mention your source of income and your means of long life. I mean, you're living alone now precisely because the Stone was destroyed."

Flamel chuckled at this. He lifted the rim of his hat to meet Harry's eyes. "Let me tell you this, Harry Potter. For a time I was a fine alchemist—perhaps the world's finest. I won't mince words: the Stone was a grand alchemical achievement. I thought it would change the world, end poverty, end plagues, end human suffering. But do you know the only thing it ended? People's interest in alchemy.

"They did not want to know how we could use it to cure diseases or help the poor. All they wanted was to live forever. They would kill and steal, even trade the lives of children for it. Ah, me. What good was all my research? I may never know.

"So now, here I am, retired from the world. I'm done with the Stone, Harry. It has done mankind more ill than good. I no longer need it nor do I wish to prolong my life any longer. There's that thing that Dumbledore keeps saying. Do you remember? _To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great…_ah…"

"Adventure," Harry finished for him. "Death is the next great adventure."

"Yes." Flamel's smile grew rueful as he looked down at the grave of his wife. "An adventure. How appropriate."

After a moment's silence, he turned back to Harry. "In any case, thank you for your help. If there is any way I can repay you…"

Harry shook his head. "Please sir, there's no need for that."

"Nonsense. Gratitude is the language of friendship. Hmm. Perhaps you want a secret? I've gathered plenty over the years."

A secret from the oldest living man in the world? This intrigued Harry. "What sort of secret?"

"A secret that's not a secret, and something someone as smart as you will find out on his own eventually. But I'd rather tell you now, as a special favor."

"All right. Sure."

Flamel straightened up, dusted his hands, and stared down at the grave amidst the flowerbed. When he spoke again, his voice was thoughtful and subdued.

"The woman who lies here had been my wife for 604 years. I no longer remember the exact time or place or circumstances upon which we met. Things like that go when you're old. What hasn't gone is this feeling, that I've loved someone wonderful, and that person loved me back just as much.

"She was a remarkable woman, and a dangerous woman. She was dangerous because she challenged so much of what I thought was immutable in me…my solitude, my habits. The notion that I owed the world nothing, that life was for work and death was a lonely business.

"So what did I do, knowing the danger that drew nearer the dearer she became to me? I married her. I thought that I could tame her. Instead, she set me free.

"Together we built up charities, hospitals, churches and orphanages. We trained a legion of alchemists that would one day bring forth modern chemistry and medicine. We traveled the globe and knew the wonders of the world.

"It hadn't always been easy, certainly not. I've lost track of the number of times we fought, parted, and came back to each other. People have their seasons too. The person you fell in love with is not the person you married, and the person you married is not the person sharing your bed ten years later. But of all the things I was sure I wanted, I wanted to stay married to her. Like wanting to know what will be on the news the next morning, and the morning after, and the morning after. That was the desire more steadfast than romance—our wanting to stay together. It lasted us through the years until the spring returned, when we learned how to love each other again.

"For us, 604 years wasn't enough. And these years I've lived without her…these two long, long years…"

He paused, and Harry saw a queer blankness fall over his visage. Without moving at all, Flamel seemed to age; the wrinkles deepened, and his eyes seemed distant and hollow, the eyes of a man looking at something far from reach. How would a man grieve for someone he had lived with for so long? Harry immediately backed the image out of his mind. It was something too private to even imagine.

"In all my years," the old man continued, "I've never found a substance more enduring than love. It's my theory that if a man can live forever, he can also love forever. At the very least, he should try."

He smiled sadly as he turned to Harry.

"But most of us won't be living forever, will we? So let me advise you, if you'll take some advice...

"Life's too short, young man. Fall in love."

The morning felt peaceful—more so than any other morning Harry had since he had left Hogwarts. Even from here his ears caught the shrill cry of a kite fishing over the lake. A brisk autumn breeze, scented with wildflowers, tousled his hair, and there was sunlight everywhere.

Flamel patted Harry's arm. "And that's my secret, Harry. Keep it, forget it, but it's yours. Now, let's get inside, and I'll have a look at that Crystal for you."

* * *

Flamel led Harry back into the house and steered him towards the staircase. The old man grasped the third pole of the banister and twisted it. Harry heard a sharp click from someplace beneath the stairs, and a portion of the floor slid open. 

"You didn't think I'd retired completely from alchemy, did you?" Flamel asked at Harry's astonished expression.

They took the stairs down into a low-ceilinged passage. Lights came on, emanating from small clusters of blue crystals jutting out of the wooden struts of the tunnel.

"Angel Tears," said Flamel. "Sheds light as a reaction to the proximity of warm bodies. Useful thief deterrents, too." He unbolted the door at the end of the passage and they entered his laboratory.

Flamel's lab looked smaller and simpler than Harry had imagined, quite unlike Professor Dumbledore's voluminous quarters or Snape's equipment-packed dungeons. It looked more like a rarely used, poor potion-maker's workshop. To his left and right, two long tables stretched along the walls, bearing several racks of stoppered test tubes filled with an assortment of multi-colored liquids, some glowing dimly. A lone metal table stood at the far end, and on it were the alchemist's tools: stone mortar and pestle, calcinator, tongs, tweezers, a variety of knives, and a strange contraption that looked like a cross between a microscope and an opthalmologist's optical refractor. A small cabinet of ashen-colored wood stood nearby, and a dusty cauldron squatted in the corner like a large bored toad.

Flamel rubbed his hands. "Now, tell me, what do we know of this Crystal Cage?"

Harry carefully removed the locket from his neck. "Well…Professor Dumbledore told me it was created centuries ago by a wizard named Volarius."

"A mighty wizard and a wise man. Bit before my time though." Flamel was putting on a pair of dragon skin gloves.

Already fearing the worst, Harry held the Crystal out to Flamel by its chain. Flamel reached out his hand and slowly, very slowly, closed his fingers around it. Their eyes never strayed for a second.

Nothing happened.

"So far, so good," muttered Flamel. He picked up the chain and held the locket up for a close look. "There appears to be…hmm, hold out your hand, Harry."

Harry did so as Flamel pressed on a catch at the side of the metal twine, which popped open and sent the Crystal tumbling into Harry's open palm. "There. Now, tell me. What else do we know of this little bauble?"

Harry thought again. "Professor Dumbledore also said it was made from a meteorite. Volarius added some kind of potion to make it indestructible. I think it he said it was sap from a kind of tree."

Flamel nodded. "Listen well, Harry. One can learn a great deal about the function of an artifact by studying its composition. The sap you just mentioned is from a Sylvan tree, which multiplies the strength of any material by ten. The meteorite ore, from what I gather, must be the substance amaranthium. Not something you can pick up just anywhere—every precious bit of it has tumbled from the heavens."

"Amaranthium," repeated Harry, as Flamel placed the Crystal on the observation panel of his microscope-like device. The alchemist snapped a few lenses into place and peered into the eyepiece.

"Yes," he said. "The crystal structure of this gemstone proves it. Pure amaranthium."

"What makes it so special?" asked Harry.

"Every substance on earth has a resistance to magic to some degree. Amaranthium is unique in that it has none. It is utterly permeable and pliable by magic—quite the opposite of another rare mineral called orichalcum, which has absolute resistance. If orichalcum is diamond, then amaranthium is clay, easily moldable to any form you wish. Any enchantment used on this stone will be 100 effective, and will suffer no degradation over time due to magic escaping into the ether.

"What else did Volarius supposedly do with the Crystal?"

Harry thought for a minute, then it hit him. "Professor Dumbledore said he infused it with his blood, something both he and Dahlia shared."

"Ah, Blood Magic. Tricky discipline, both difficult and dangerous even for those who know what they're doing."

"What do you mean?"

"Blood is vital to life, Harry. Not only does it keep us alive, so much of our traits go into it. That is why we say certain abilities 'run in our blood.' Blood is also symbolic for anger, violence and sacrifice. Blood Magic, therefore, deals directly with the secrets of life and death. I assure you that any small mistake will have consequences on both the subject and the caster."

Harry fidgeted, thinking of Wagnard's burnt hands. "So…Volarius used Blood Magic to trap the Cimmerian Sorceress, right? Do you think we could do the same thing with Voldemort?" Harry was quite aware he used "we" instead of "I." This Blood Magic business felt completely out of his league, and part of him felt ashamed in hoping that either Flamel or Dumbledore would be the one to figure it out for him.

But Flamel only shrugged at his question. "I can't say."

Harry stared at him. "Why not?"

"Blood Magic is labyrinthine and extraordinarily custom-made. Each enchantment may be a variant of a pre-existing spell, or a variant of a variant. Or something completely new. The only one who can tell us what he did and how he did it to any credible degree would be the caster himself—Volarius."

Harry could not believe what he was hearing. "But he's been dead for centuries! Isn't there any clue we can pick up from the Crystal itself? Can't we study it somehow? Isn't there anyone who knows?" He thought of the vast library in Hogwarts and others that may exist in the world, and the legions of scholars who spent their lives unlocking mystical mysteries. Someone had to know. The idea that he was holding an effective weapon against Voldemort yet having no way to control it was absurd.

Flamel wore the embarrassed look of one who had reached the end of his knowledge on the subject. He rubbed the lobe of his ear for a minute, then finally said, "To be honest, there IS someone who may possess the knowledge we need…"

Harry's eyes lit up. "Who is he? Maybe we can arrange—"

"…but one may find speaking with this person is…how shall we say…not recommended. It may well be impossible, anyway."

"Why not? Who is it?"

Flamel held up the Crystal. "The subject of Volarius's enchantment: the Cimmerian Sorceress herself."

* * *

"He can't be serious!" cried Danny. "Isn't there anyone else?" 

He and Harry practicing in Flamel's sprawling lawn, struggling to tag each other with harmless little globes of magical light. Moody, meanwhile, watched them from the shade of a tree, much like an audience member in a tennis match.

Harry shook his head. He and Flamel had racked their brains for the last hour for options. The alchemist had suggested the hidden libraries in Greece where Volarius had reputedly studied, a few sages in Corinth who might know a thing or two, and some Blood Magic practitioners in New Orleans ("I don't recommend them," the alchemist confided. "Too unscrupulous—might ask for things you won't be willing to pay.") They came to the same conclusion: the Cimmerian Sorceress most likely knew the spell best.

"So we're in a jam again," grumbled Moody, puffing at his pipe.

"Mr. Flamel's working on something now," said Harry. "He's trying to see if there's another way to manipulate the Crystal's power." He brought up his Wandshield and scattered Danny's latest volley.

"How long has he been working at it?" asked Moody.

Harry looked at his watch. "Nearly three hours already—hey!" He twisted away from a sudden bolt of magic. "I'm talking here, do you mind?"

"As if a Death Eater will be polite enough to let you finish," said Danny, then ducked behind the nearest tree stump as a silvery mist smoked out of Harry's wand. "Hey! Blockable spells only! None of that Espresso Petroleum crap!"

"Knock it off you two," said Moody. "We've got to figure out what to do next."

"Not much to do but wait, s'far as I see." Danny wiped his forehead. "This sort of thing's the field of the eggheads. If you ask me, we're better off working on a way to get close to You-Know-Who in order to use that contraption." He nodded at the other boy. "You've got your work cut out for you, Robbie."

"Don't I know it. And stop calling me Robbie."

Danny only grinned.

The bang of a shutting door caught their attention, and they turned to see Flamel striding out into the back yard. Harry did a double take. The old man's gray hair was unkempt, as if he had been gripping it in his fists. His mouth was set in a grim line, and one eye was twitching. Harry could tell he had not met with much success.

"I've done all I can," stated Flamel. "I'm afraid this place is not properly equipped for this kind of research."

"So…nothing happened?" asked Harry.

Flamel waved his arms. "Nothing, nothing, and more nothing! I've tried fire, acid, electricity and cold. I've tried magic dust that would make stones recite history and ancient oaks pine for lost youth. I've tried reagents that would force secrets from djinns, straight answers from Sphinxes and sincerity from politicians. All for nothing!"

"The magic of the Stone is too powerful then," said Moody. "Grand Wizardry."

"It would seem so. And yet no suggestion of resistance! No spark of magical activity! If it had a truly powerful spell I would see some kind of reaction from the stone with my lens. But the damn thing just sat there, like any rock from the roadside. Every bit of magic in my tools simply died! Vanished! No Grand Wizardry is that potent! It's an unparalleled mystery!"

Harry said, "Isn't there anything else we can do?"

Flamel scratched his whiskers. "Perhaps now is not the time to do anything, not yet. Now is the time to think."

He turned on his heel and stalked back into his house.

"Where are you going?" Danny called after him.

Flamel poked his head out the window. "To think!" he yelled. "I do my best thinking while working in my kitchen. You may do what you like for now. Rest, relax before your escort arrives tonight. But please leave me with some time alone. I expect I'll be busy—busy as a monkey in a banana-eating contest!" He disappeared into his house again.

"Eggheads," muttered Danny, but there was awed respect in his voice.

* * *

The day dwindled swiftly behind the treetops, and the sky outside their window turned into a crossfire between sunset and the night. Harry sometimes raised his head to watch it as he tended to his shoes. Carbuncle had washed them for him, and Harry took some time mending the tears with Sticking Charms. Moody kept silent company, cleaning his trunk and checking his equipment. Danny had stayed outside to do some target practice, but Harry caught him returning inside with his last glance out the window. 

A few miles south of Flamel's home, Sirius, Remus, and their battalion of Order agents and Centaur pathfinders had entered the bog that bordered Lake Mab. Neither captain minded slogging through the muck and grass; their minds—Sirius's in particular—were focused only on seeing Harry at last.

And in Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore stared into the murky depths of his Pensieve with his fingers against his forehead. Though he knew that Harry was as good as home, something still troubled him. He had checked on the boy through Flamel, verified with Lyle that Sirius and Remus were nearing their destination. Still, a gnawing bit of worry stayed in his mind. Was there something left unaccounted for? Something he could have possibly overlooked?

And in a glade deep in the Forbidden Forest, a Centaur seer and his young charge stared up at the deepening twilight. High above them, Mars burned bright as a tiger's eye.

"Must it be?" asked the youngling.

The seer replied, "It must be."

* * *

The sound of a dinner bell, followed by the entrance of a floating scented candle, drew Harry and his friends from their room. The clock had just struck seven in the evening, as they followed the candle down to the dining room, where a table was set for four, complete with soup bowls and desert plates and utensils of varying sizes. The room was ablaze with several ornate lamps, and a nearby gramophone hummed a tune with a voice warm enough to melt butter. 

Flamel stood by the table, nodding in time to the music while tossing a salad. This time he had combed what was left of his hair, and wore a silken Chinese vest of vivid red over an immaculate white shirt. "Ah, there you are," he said. "Please. Make yourselves comfortable." He sounded jovial now, and continued tossing the salad as if it were a form of meditation.

"I see you're feeling better," remarked Moody.

"Much, thank you. The work has done me well. So well, in fact, that I'll need your help lightening the table."

"I'm your man!" said Danny, rubbing his hands. "I'm hungry enough to eat a dinosaur."

Flamel laughed. "No dinosaurs, I'm afraid. Just some soup, salad, grilled salmon and turbot, roast duck, and exotic fruits for dessert. Oh, and a few bottles of Sauvingon Blanc and Syrah. I hope that's sufficient."

Harry's stomach did a fine imitation of a growling bear. He and Danny shared grins as they sat down.

"For starters, the soup." Flamel pulled in a small cart from the kitchen, bearing three large steaming bowls. "You have the choice of crab and corn, mushroom, or borscht. _Bon appetit_!"

Harry chose the borscht, a red Russian soup of beets, meat, cabbage and cream. He devoured his helping, and would have asked for more had Flamel not distracted him with the salad, a tantalizing blend of bread crumbs, grapes, apple slices, water chestnuts and vinaigrette. He bit down on the crunchy lettuce and relished the sensation of eating something fresh. Best of all, there was not a raisin in sight.

"This is a fine feast, I must say," Moody remarked as Flamel poured him a glass of wine. "You may have missed your calling."

Flamel laughed as he helped himself to more vinaigrette. "Cooking is a form of alchemy, I think. They share the same basic principle—turn simple substances into something far more valuable. I've collected several hundred recipes from all over the world. It feels good to put them to some use at last."

"I didn't think you'd go through so much trouble…" began Harry.

"No trouble! This is your last night here, so you should have a proper send-off. Besides, the work allowed me to think things through."

They all looked up from their meals. "What did you come up with?" asked Danny.

Flamel filled his glass and reached into his pocket. "Firstly, Harry, here." He put the Crystal, restored in its locket, into Harry's hand. "Keep it safe. We'll be needing it again. Now, about my findings, I think that as long as we stay here, we have no hope of gaining any useful results. There are simply not enough equipment for the task at hand.

"Secondly, this puzzle cannot be handled by a single mind alone. It is necessary to have an exchange of knowledge and opinions, and to work along several lines of investigation at once. We need a team."

Harry nodded. "I could talk to Professor Dumbledore at Hogwarts. I'm sure he knows how to get all that together."

"Yes, consulting him would be wise. I am certain that finding a means to control the artifact would only be a matter of time. Volarius is too wise a mage not to leave a fail-safe of some sort, should the prisoner escape. Dumbledore, myself and a team of experts should find it, if we work together…"

"Wait a minute," said Daniel. "Did I hear you right? _Together?_"

Flamel smiled. "I understand there are some very fine laboratories in the dungeons of Hogwarts. It would be interesting to see just how extensive they are."

"Coming out of retirement, then?" asked Moody.

"Voldermort tends to bring that out in people, yes?" Flamel smiled, and Moody returned it.

Harry felt a heady rush of surprise and excitement. Flamel and Dumbledore, working together again. Something worthy of the history books. It would blow Hermione's mind.

"But…but won't it be hard for you?" he asked. "You went through so much trouble hiding out here so people wouldn't harass you about your work and eternal life. Won't they start up with that again?"

"My dear boy," replied Flamel, "when I decided to turn hermit, it didn't mean I would turn my back on the world. I simply wanted things to go on without me getting in the way. But we're in a war, and people are dying. And you are our best hope for putting a stop to all that. Why shouldn't I help? I've already informed Dumbledore of my proposal and he has accepted it, with gratitude." He gave a thoughtful pause. "I suppose he knew in the first place that I wouldn't turn you away. I'm probably not mistaken in saying that you tend to bring that out in others."

"I'll drink to that," said Moody. "He's gifted in that sense, eh, Danny?"

"Meh. I'm just in for the money." Danny gave Harry a lopsided smirk.

"A toast then," said Flamel as he raised his glass. "To Harry, may he live a long, full life." The three men raised their glasses, and Harry could not help the slight flush on his face.

Carbuncle came in, bearing a tray with the main course. The fish—grilled turbot with salsa and fried salmon served in a sweet lemon sauce—did a good job at taking away much of the conversation for the next half hour.

"You can help yourself to some dragon dung, Carbuncle," said Flamel as his butler wheeled in the roast duck, "but if you don't mind I suggest you eat it in the kitchen."

Carbuncle clearly did not mind, skipping back to the adjoining room.

"Now is a good time," Flamel said, "for some toasts. For the life of me though, I'm not sure where to begin with the acknowledgments."

Danny cleared his throat. "Well, let me start. I would like to thank a special someone for being an integral reason as to why we're here celebrating tonight. That someone is me."

Harry could not restrain from rolling his eyes. Flamel laughed, while Moody somehow kept a straight face.

"Yeah," Danny went on, "I'd like to thank me for making it this far. For not giving up, no matter how rough things got with vampires and Death Eaters and huge bogs and such." The loutish smile faded from his face. "If I had given up back in Hillsdale, I wouldn't be sitting here with such good company. I imagine I'd be freezing my arse off in the middle of nowhere. I'd never have learned so much, never heard such great stories I could share later on, and never have the chance to boast about having stood by such brave people like Robbie here, or someone as bloody fascinating as Nick. Even my godfather is a bearable fellow after a drink or two." He nodded to Moody, who only wrinkled his nose. "So I thank me, because I wouldn't have traded this experience with you gents for the world."

Flamel raised his glass. "To your health, Mr. Oaks!" And they toasted.

Warmed by the wine and Danny's speech, Harry spoke up next.

"I've never toasted anyone before," he said, beaming all around him. "I've had a lot of firsts these past few weeks. I can't say I've had a great time all around, or that I'd do it all again if I could"—nods of understanding from everyone—"But I still want to thank you, each of you, for this awful, grand, terrifying, amazing adventure. I won't forget all you've done. Thank you—Mr. Flamel, Danny, Mad-Eye—for saving my life so many times, and for letting me go home." He raised his glass, smiling, and they drain the last of their wine.

"There's one thing I've never figured out," Harry said, turning to Moody. "How did you manage to find me in time in that crypt back in Hillsdale? That wasn't a small cemetery, you know. I'd pretty much given up hope you'd find me."

"Well, Moody," said Danny, grinning. "Guess it's time to let the Kneazle out of the knapsack, eh?"

"I don't think so," replied his godfather.

"Oh, come on," Danny cajoled, "you're not seriously considering keeping it from him until the end, are you? Is that fair?"

"It isn't a question of fair or not," retorted Moody. "We've got security to think of."

"What's this all about?" asked Harry, looking from one man to the other.

Danny said, "You've got to get it back at some point, you know. Then he'll deserve an explanation."

Finally, Moody relented. He reached into his pocket and produced Harry's old glasses. "Give me back the ones you're wearing," he said. "You won't be needing them anymore, I think."

Puzzled, Harry made the exchange. "Is there something special about those?"

"You might say that," replied the Auror, pocketing the glasses. "They're enchanted, such that I can tap into the lens using my eye. It lets me see and hear exactly what you do. That's how I found out which crypt you were in easily enough."

Harry took a moment to absorb this information. "You could see and hear everything…?"

"Yep."

"…And you never bothered to tell me?"

"Dumbledore and I agreed it was better of as…privileged information, considering your track record going at it on your own."

"Just a minute!" cried Harry. "I've been wearing those since the night we left Hogwarts! Are you saying—"

"That I saw you sneaking out of Hagrid's hut to visit the Weasley girl? I won't lie. I told you from the start, it's my job to keep an eye on you."

"Whoa, this has suddenly become interesting!" said Danny, leaning closer. "Don't spare the details, Moody."

Harry stared at them in outrage. "I was—how could—you have no right!"

"What you and your girl talk about doesn't concern me much, laddie," replied Moody.

"And what are you embarrassed about, anyway?" asked Danny. "What's your sweetheart's name?" 

"None of your business! And she's not my sweetheart!"

"She'll never be," agreed Moody, "the way you seem to be dragging your feet with her."

"Sounds complicated," Flamel said. Harry turned to him, hoping for some respite from this horrendous breach of privacy. But Flamel went on, "This girl they speak of, she was that pretty redhead you were speaking with last night, am I right?"

Face burning, Harry could only nod. He could not understand how a round of heart-felt acknowledgments could turn into such a free-for-all on his private life.

"If you don't mind my saying so," Flamel continued, "it's rather obvious how special you are to her. I would say you're rather lucky."

"Yeah," muttered Danny. "At least you've got a girlfriend."

"She's not my girlfriend," said Harry, without conviction.

Flamel and Danny turned to Moody. "If he says she's not, she's not," he replied with a shrug. "Although I don't see why the hell she shouldn't be, unless you're either blind as a bat or as daft as my godson."

"Look, it's not that I don't…like her or anything," Harry relented. "It's just that…now isn't the right time."

"It does sound complicated," agreed Flamel.

"No, it's the kid who's complicated," said Danny, filling his glass again. "As if there's a right time for anything."

"What are you talking about?" asked Harry, glaring at him. "I'm just saying things are too difficult right now to even consider—"

"I'm afraid Danny's right, my friend," said Flamel. "There is no such thing as the 'right time.' Why do you think I told you my secret?"

Harry lapsed into a surprised silence.

"The happiest men are not shackled by time, Harry. They know time's a mean trickster. It's out to humble you, to run out just when you think you've grasped it tight with both hands. So don't wait for the right moment for something so vital. There's no such thing as the right moment. There's only now, and it's all we mortals have." He drained his glass and smiled that serene smile of his. "That's all I'm going to say about your private life. Now who's for dessert?"

Harry sat stunned, barely heeding the piles of mangoes, pineapples and jackberries that rolled onto the table before him. But Moody patted his shoulder and passed him the bottle of wine. "Got a lot to think about, don't you? Take it easy. You'll make the right decision."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "This from the guy who's been spying on me for the last two weeks."

"Which is why I'm confident you'll make the right choice," replied the old man. "Compared to all you've gone through, this one's a no-brainer. And by the way…" He clinked his wine glass to Harry's. "My thanks. For giving me some use, even in my old age. I've had a grand time as your bodyguard."

They laughed, and drank, and traded tales, and waited out the night together. The gramophone played endlessly, Muggle and wizard artist alike: Johnny Mathis, The Hecate, Nat King Cole, Aliora Syrrh, Ray Charles. The Chieftains drummed up an Irish jig, and The Platters claimed that heavenly shades of night were falling.

And when the clock struck one, their evening came to a sudden end.

As Carbuncle was busy clearing the table, Harry raised his bleary eyes in alarm as several bells rang out from somewhere nearby.

"My early warning system," explained Flamel, setting down his glass. "Gentlemen, it seems our visitors have finally arrived."

Harry's eyes went wide. "Sirius," he whispered.

"About time, too," said Moody, nodding. "Siddown, lad. Wait for them to come in through the front door."

Danny groped for the bottle. "Better polish this off before they spot it."

"We'll let Carbuncle will show them in," said Flamel, getting up. "No, wait, those were the southern bells that rang just now. They should be coming round…just outside the window." He peered in that direction. "Strange. They must have come through the forest instead of the path. Carbuncle, would you kindly take a look?"

The automaton crossed to the other side of the room and unlatched the window.

"Hello?" called Flamel, stepping forward. "Anyone there?"

No one answered him but a cool, drifting breeze. Outside there was only silence and a nest of shadows.

Harry was the first to catch the scent. That same reek of death and fear filled his lungs and his mind, and every follicle of hair on his neck stood on end. 'No,' he thought. 'It can't be…it's impossible.'

"GET AWAY FROM THE WINDOW!" he shouted, leaping out of his chair.

But in the next instant there was no window—just a gaping black hole and a shower of wood and blue glass as a large swath of the wall imploded. One moment Flamel was standing there, gazing back at him in open-mouthed surprise; in the next he was sent sprawling on the floor with his arms covering his head. Carbuncle was knocked topsy-turvy into a corner, his spindly legs spasming in terror.

They had no more than an instant before something huge and heavy and black as the night crashed onto the rosewood table. The force sent it skidding forward, knocking all the air out of Harry with a blow to his chest. He had no time to scream, no time to do anything but fall flat on his back and clutch his ribcage in agony.

Above him hung twin moons, those same lidless eyes shedding a hellish white light, and that heavy, hound-like face.

It looked bigger than ever now; large as castles, large as the night, large as despair. Though it bent its neck to look at him, its spine brushed the ceiling of the dining room. Its heavy burgundy tongue coiled around the dripping spikes of its teeth, and steam rose from its cavernous nostrils. The gigantic pincers opened and closed, opened and closed, as if it mouthing human words. The skin had not yet grown back over its regenerated lower jaw.

Harry knew then that this beast could not die— would refuse to die—until it had crushed his life its jaws. It would live as long as its hatred lasted. It was his monster, now and forever, and would come again and again until one or both of them were dead.

The hound raised one gigantic paw to swipe at his head, but the blow did not fall Lightning cracked across its unblinking eyes and it drew back like surprised snake.

"Get away!" Danny was shouting, though it was not clear if he meant Harry or the beast. He was on one knee, both wands out. Blood flowed from a cut on his forehead and from a long gash on his cheek.

Freed from his lethargy, Harry struggled backwards on his elbows, only to have the beast's claws smash into the floor a few inches above his head. He shrank back with a cry and rolled underneath the table.

"Harry!" bellowed Moody, who had also pulled out his wand and was hurling curses at the monster. He shouted a string of instructions that sounded muffled to Harry's terrified mind, until he realized he had clamped his hands around his ears to block out the growling of the beast.

He began crawling towards the other end of the table. Before he could make it, a claw came swiping out like a deadly pendulum. He backpedaled, crawled in the other direction. The claws came again, and this time one of them struck home. Harry shouted and pulled back, clutching at his right shoulder, which felt like it had been stabbed by small knife. Something sticky and warm seeped from between his fingers. Above him, the table creaked wildly beneath the weight of the hound.

Sudden bursts of magic erupted on either side of the table as Moody and Danny, both out of reach of those terrible claws, bounded forward and shot at the beast's flanks. The monster screamed and raged at them, its sides momentarily glowing with heat.

"NOW, HARRY!" roared Moody. "Get out of there, NOW!"

Harry hurled himself away from the table, rolling on the carpeted floor. His wound screamed and left a trail of blood. Pulling himself up, he saw the beast still on the table, caught off balance between Moody and Danny's attacks. The room flashed vivid red and yellow, and the air took on a menacing electric tang.

Harry reached for his wand, but realized his hand was shivering too much for him to grasp it properly. He nearly screamed when something clutched at his arm.

"It's me," gasped Flamel. "I've got you, lad. Don't be afraid."

Harry grabbed the alchemist's arm, to comfort himself as much as to support him. The old man's fine silken vest was tattered and dirty, and his face was pale as cream. He stayed on his feet by propping himself up with his Foe-Hammer.

With a deep breath to steady himself, Flamel set his feet firmly on the floor and hefted the gun onto his shoulder. "Harry! Shoot the table!"

Thinking fast, Harry pointed his wand. "_Diffindo_!"

The curse split the rosewood table in half, and the beast collapsed into the break with a thunderous crash. It let out that half-human, high-pitched shriek that wiped Harry's mind clean.

Flamel aimed the Foe-Hammer straight at it. The beast turned to face him, and Harry saw a flicker of recognition on that monstrous visage. It still remembered the weapon that nearly killed it.

The hound threw itself to the side as Flamel pulled the trigger.

The room instantly vanished in a green thunderbolt. A great roar of fury and pain shook the house. Harry blinked hard and saw that monstrous black hulk lurch to the side. A huge chunk of its left shoulder was gone, but still it rushed forward, and a huge paw lashed out and struck the Foe-Hammer.

In the next instant, a second green blast erupted in the room, and Harry found himself hurtling through the air and out a window. He landed hard, rolling on the grass. After that he was only aware of some confused shouting, the great two-voiced roar of the angry beast, and a great groaning noise as something dark and heavy struck the ground. The shock tossed Harry up a foot into the air. When he fell back down, his mind disappeared for a while behind a buzzing haze of gray static.

It was the first drops of rain that woke him. Harry felt the cold pitter-patter on his face, and opened his eyes to an endless stretch of dark sky. He sat up slowly, testing every joint and bone for anything broken. Finding himself still intact, he staggered to his feet and peered unbelievingly through the mist before him, and met a heart-rending sight.

The great oak tree that Flamel had built his retirement home around now lay on its side. Harry could see where the Foe-Hammer's second wild shot had blown apart the massive trunk, which was smoldering angrily as the rain began to dissipate its heat. The little house hadn't stood a chance; the tree had brought it down like a cardboard pop-up in a children's book. Lumber jutted out in all directions like porcupine quills. The shattered upper rooms had disgorged beds, pillows, trunks and other pieces of furniture upon the lawn. Smoke mingled with the night mist and the thin veil of rain. There was no sign of anyone, anywhere.

"Not fair." It was all Harry could think to say. His mind opened and shut, at once taking in all these details and rejecting the whole picture. Their haven, gone in an instant. He could still taste roast duck and grilled turbot on his tongue.

A nearby groan woke him from his stupor. Eyes widening, Harry pulled himself up. "Danny?" he cried. "Is that you? Mad-Eye? Mr. Flamel?"

Heedless of the danger, he plunged past the broken wall and into the dining room. He nearly ran into Carbuncle. The poor automaton was still upside down, his feet swaying from side to side in an attempt to get back up again. Harry was about to help him when he spied a figure laying face up beside the tree, groaning in pain.

"Moody!" Harry struggled over the smashed remains of the rosewood table and knelt beside the Auror. Moody was dazed but conscious. His magical eye did a drowsy swing from side to side.

"Harry?" he murmured. "That you?"

"Yes, yes it's me. Are you hurt? God, your leg…"

He stared at Moody's left leg, which was pinned beneath the tree trunk. But the Auror shook his head. "Not my real one," he said. "I'll be fine. Where's Danny? And Flamel?"

Harry shook his head wildly. "I don't know," he said. "I don't even know where to start looking! I—"

His words ended in a gasp as he caught sight of somebody lying a few feet away. Harry crawled closer for a better look. The red vest clued him in quickly. It was Nicholas and he was—

He was—

Nicholas was lying facedown on the grass, one arm lolled on his side like a broken wing, the other stretched out over his head towards the Foe-Hammer, which lay a few steps away. It was as if he had been trying to dive out of the way of something. That something was his oak tree, which now pinned him from the waist down.

"Mr. Flamel?" Harry whispered, sick with horror.

The old man did not move at the sound. Harry repeated his name over and over as he approached, stepping over broken dishes and extinguished lamps, until he found himself kneeling beside the old man's head. Finally, Nicholas opened his eyes.

"Harry?" came his hoarse, dry whisper.

Hope flashed through Harry. "Can you move?"

Flamel swallowed. "What's…happening…can't feel anything…"

"You'll be fine," said Harry, forcing his voice to stay calm. "Help will be here soon. Sirius and Remus're coming and they'll take care of you. Just…just hang on, okay?"

Flamel's eyes rolled around, taking in his surroundings. He eyed the way his lower body disappeared beneath the tree, and muttered something unintelligible.

"What?" said Harry, bringing his ear close to the old man's lips. "What did you say?"

"I should've made sure," muttered Flamel. "Should've made doubly sure. It wasn't dead…my fault…sorry, Harry…promised you my protection."

This sounded to Harry like the most absurd thing in the world. "No," he said, "no, no, never mind me. It's no one's fault. Don't say stuff like that." He tried to think of a spell, anything at all, powerful enough to move the huge tree, but if he knew any his memory failed him now. Jumping to his feet, he splayed both hands on the trunk and pushed. It didn't even budge.

To his left he caught Moody's eye. The old Auror was watching Flamel's body beneath the tree with his magical eye, and Harry saw the news of their friend's death on his grim face.

Right then, Harry's mind played a horrible trick of memory on him. It was that night of his Fourth Year all over again, the night the Dark Lord came back. _Kill the spare,_ he'd commanded Wormtail. It was exactly what his other servant had done this time too—taken another innocent life.

_**Just to get to me.**_

"Can you talk?" asked Harry, and found he could no longer keep his voice from shaking. "Please, say something!"

He heard, very faintly, some mumbling behind him. He planted his shoulder against the wood and pushed until his feet dug into the grass. Still the tree refused to budge. In frustration, he punched it as hard as he could. Pain flared as his knuckles opened, but he paid it no mind.

He realized Flamel was whispering his name, so he knelt down beside his friend again.

"I'm sorry, Harry," muttered Flamel, "but I'm afraid…I won't be coming with you after all…" the rest trailed off into muttering.

Harry shook his head violently. "Don't say that! You said you would! You said you'll help us fight Voldemort, so don't tell me you're giving up! You _can't_ give up!"

Harry became aware of someone approaching to his left. Danny, wet and ashen-faced, dragged himself across the grass towards them. He met the old man's suffering with a respectful silence, and reached a trembling hand for Flamel's forehead to wipe the rainwater from his face.

Flamel blinked, straining to see. His eyes had grown distracted and hazy. Then he was muttering again.

"What?" asked Harry. "What did you say?'

Danny came close, bent his ear to Flamel's lips. To his surprise, Harry saw sudden tears spring to the Duomancer's eyes.

Flamel's voice rose a bit, just enough to be heard. "Hush, _ma cherie_. Listen. You're dying. It's all right. It happens to us all. One day I shall die too, then we will be together."

"No," whispered Harry, clutching his bony hand. "No. Please. Not again." But the old man did not hear him.

"We were born together," he mumbled, "and we will be together forevermore. Yes, yes of course…I have not forgotten. I will plant roses…all the roses you desire. Each one a kiss from me once we are apart. Oh, my love, my life…don't be afraid of death."

His hand clutched feebly at Harry's own. "Remember Albus's words…it's just…just another…"

He drew his breath for another word, but the word never came. He blinked once, then his breathing stilled, and Nicholas Flamel was no more.

A bottomless silence reigned in the little meadow. All three men heard it above the falling rain, and the breeze rushing through the skeleton of the old man's home. For many moments they all stared at the body of their friend without moving or speaking. How strangely peaceful he seemed, Harry observed, despite so violent a death. It was as if he had been waiting for it all this time.

The silence, however, was short-lived. A creaking noise sounded from the other side of the tree, followed by a dull clatter of wood being shoved aside. Moody's eye swung to that direction.

"Harry," he said in warning.

He didn't need to specify. In the next moment, the hound leaped onto the log and glared balefully down at the figures hunched around Flamel. Its mandibles slid open as it bared its teeth. It seemed to be grinning.

But this time, Harry returned its stare without flinching.

"You," he said.

Before his bodyguards could act, Harry flung himself onto the ground. When he got up again, he was holding the Foe-Hammer.

"Harry, no!" Danny struggled to get to his feet but only succeeded in slipping; the wounds on his legs gaped open once again.

Harry paid him no attention. He aimed the rifle up at the beast as best he could. The weapon felt clumsy and heavy in his hands. But he was done with running. He did not feel frozen by fear, not anymore. As if someone had replaced his heart with something cold and dead and heavy.

"It was me you wanted," Harry said tonelessly. "It was me who should have died. But you killed him just the same."

"Harry, don't move!" bellowed Moody, clutching around the grass for his wand. "Don't bait it! Don't make it—"

"You killed him!" Harry screamed, pulling the trigger.

He heard a blast of thunder before the Foe-Hammer's recoil sent him sprawling backwards. The shot went wild, vaporizing a fragment of the tree. Moody and Danny instantly covered their heads with their arms. The beast leaped out of the way easily, landing on the ground far to their right.

Harry forced himself back to his feet. He had not expected to kill the beast in one shot anyway, but wanted it to know that he was the worst threat. He would not have his friends attacked again.

Ignoring the shouts from his companions, Harry hefted the Foe-Hammer in his arms and ran out of the ruined house.

Behind him he heard Moody shouting "Harry, damn it, wait! Danny, get off your arse! Don't lose him—" The rest of the words were buried beneath a thundering crash as the beast smashed its way through the ruined wall, in hot pursuit.

Harry sprinted into the woods. It was raining harder now, the water slickening the grass beneath his feet, but he managed to reach the trees without losing his footing. He slipped between the thin wet trees before realizing this had been his plan all along—with the trees bunched closely together, the monster at his heels would have difficulty chasing him.

He had run perhaps 10 steps when he heard the trees behind him break apart as the beast hurtled after him. Harry forced himself to go faster, leaping over roots and between the trees, the Foe-Hammer thrust in front of him to fend off low branches. He let his feet lead the way, running through whatever breaks he could see in the undergrowth. He had no plan other than to get the beast as far away from his friends as possible, and turn and fight when he got the chance.

Lungs burning, he clawed his way through the underbrush. Brambles tore at his pants, and thin branches drew scratches on his cheeks. Still the sounds of pursuit did not abate. The heavy footfalls sounded like the beat of hunting drums. It had his scent; it would not lose him. Harry did not want it to.

At last, he stumbled into a moor. The way lay open before him for miles, to the edge of the mountains where the city lights shimmering against the thunderclouds looked like a vision from hell. The tall grasses offered no protection, and he had only a short run left in him before he finally collapsed or was caught.

Harry ran on anyway for several yards, before turning around and hefting the Foe-Hammer against his shoulder. This time he crouched down onto one knee to absorb the shock. He wondered, briefly, if Danny would make it in time to help, before pushing the thought out of his mind. In the end it was down to him, the Boy Who Lived For God Knows Why, just as it had always been.

The beast smashed through the last few trees in its way as it emerged from the forest. At this distance, its eyes were pale pinpricks in the gloom.

"Over here!" Harry screamed as he took aim. "Come and get me! _Me this time_!"

The hound raised its chilling hunting cry, then bore down on him.

Harry squeezed the trigger. The Foe-Hammer kicked hard at his shoulder as the world flashed red. Some distance away the ground to the left of the hound exploded.

Harry righted himself and aimed again. The beast seemed so huge Harry hardly thought he could miss it, but keeping it within the sights proved difficult. The Foe-Hammer felt heavier than ever in his exhausted arms, and the rain was cold and blinding.

He squeezed the trigger again and the shock of the blast rocked his whole body. His second shot would've hit its mark, but the hound leaped to the side in the last second. Still it charged at him, closing to the last few feet.

Harry aimed again and fired, but the beast leaped over the shot. He could see its jaws and mandibles open wide in welcome. It loomed before him, obscuring all else, filling his lungs with the scent of death. There was nothing else, no chance to turn or run or fight.

The beast's lidless eyes were the last things Harry saw before the world vanished behind a burning, crimson curtain.

* * *

When Danny struggled past the wreckage the beast had left its wake, he knew he was too late. The sounds of battle had already faded away, and there were no more blasts of magic in the distance. That could only mean that either one or both of the combatants were dead, and chances were good that Danny had failed not just Harry, but Nicholas, Moody, Dumbledore, and whoever else in Hogwarts expecting to see the boy alive. Still, he staggered on, legs screaming with every step he took. 

What he saw in the moor came as a complete surprise.

The beast was running in circles round the wide-open space, in a show of undeniable agony. It howled and screeched in its two strange voices, and at times would hurl itself on the ground and roll around on the grass, only to get up and charge around again.

Danny watched it warily, both wands out and ready for anything. He attempted to sneak closer for a better shot, but soon realized it wasn't necessary—the monster was too caught up in its throes to even notice him. He came to a halt at the same time as the beast, watching as it chased its own tail. It never ceased its terrible howling.

Danny heard a hissing sound, like meat frying on a hot griddle, and something that looked like a bright-red piece of coal fell from the beast's belly onto the grass. It then fled into the misty moor, yipping and whimpering like a whipped dog.

Dumbfounded, Danny limped over to where the object fell. The red light faded as he approached, and it took a moment of shuffling through the wet grass for him to finally find what he was looking for.

The Crystal Cage lay cradled in its metal case and twine. Whatever enchantments surrounding the artifact were powerful enough to burn a hole through the impregnable flesh of the hound. But it did not singe the grass that surrounded it, nor did it burn Danny when he held it and put it around his neck.

Harry was nowhere to be found.

* * *

When Sirius and Remus arrived at Flamel's home, they were greeted by the smoking remains of a small house and a fallen oak tree. Sirius immediately shouted orders for their troops to secure the area, then charged into the ruins, shouting for Harry. Remus followed to guard his back. 

They found Mad-Eye Moody sitting alone next to the tree, his wet, grizzled hair streaming down his face and his peg leg missing. The Auror kept watch over the corpse of a balding old man, who lay pinned beneath the massive trunk. Nearby squatted a bronze, round-bodied automaton, which whimpered as it nudged the body, as if trying to rouse it from sleep.

Moody raised his head at their approach. "You're a little late," was all he said.

No one spoke for a long moment, and the silence was broken only by the sigh of a cold breeze, and the high wail of a grieving automaton.

* * *

When Ron, Hermione and Ginny gathered that morning in front of the gargoyle that guarded the headmaster's office, it was after a long night of waiting and anticipation, broken by short bouts of restless sleep. Dumbledore had told them that Harry would arrive sometime before dawn, but no word had come during the night. When daybreak finally came, Ron knocked on the girl's dormitory and announced to Hermione and Ginny that he was going up to ask the headmaster if everything was all right. If he was waiting up there too, they might as well wait together. Seeing nothing else to do, both girls decided to follow. 

As soon as they stepped onto the moving staircase, they heard a tremendous crash from somewhere above them. Ginny looked around in alarm. No one said anything as they drew wands, their eyes wide and white in the gloom.

The door to Dumbledore's office was unlocked. Ron nudged it open and they crept in single file. To their surprise, they found the headmaster sitting at his chair as usual. There were no intruders, no signs of forced entry. Some incredible force, however, had shattered the headmaster's beautiful ornate desk in two. Scattered papers lay smoldering on the floor, and two of the chairs in front of the desk lay on their backs several feet away.

Dumbledore sat very still on his high-backed chair, his head bowed so low they could not see his eyes beneath his cap. One hand held a letter, the other was curled into a tight, smoking fist. Fawkes perched on the backrest, caressing the old man's face with his wing, as if to comfort him.

"Professor Dumbledore?" Hermione called tentatively. She received no answer.

Without a word, Ron strode across the room towards him. Ginny and Hermione watched in alarm, then broke into a run to catch up. Ron ignored the papers on the floor, walking right up to stand before the headmaster.

This time, Dumbledore looked up. His face looked wan and stony, but his eyes carried only grief. He faced Ron without saying a word. Ron's mouth was working, a sight Ginny knew meant that he was trying to find the right thing to say and failing at it.

"Is he dead?" he finally blurted out.

Ginny heard Hermione gasp beside her, but her gaze stayed on the old man's face.

His whispered response was the one thing she never expected, never wanted to hear from Professor Dumbledore.

"I don't know."

* * *

When Harry next opened his eyes, he was met with a pristine, endless azure sky. The sky had never looked so blue before the Barrier, which meant he was surely dead. It seemed somehow fitting that the first thing he should see in the afterlife was something he had missed in the previous one. 

He sat up slowly, but found the precaution unnecessary: all his wounds were gone, as were his bandages. No marks marred his left forearm where Wagnard had attacked him. He felt stronger and completely refreshed.

He had been lying in a soft bed of wildflowers, not unlike those in the meadow near the Burrow. Beyond the flowers, the grassland stretched to the far green hills. The air was still and sweet, the sun warm on his skin. This, undoubtedly, was heaven.

Harry's thought was reinforced when his eyes fell upon a figure in a nearby copse of trees. The woman in the red robe sat half-hidden in the shadows, and the sight of her profile and her long red hair made Harry gasp. It was his mother, waiting for him.

A sudden, painful joy filled his heart. He twisted around to call to her. The words were on his lips just as the woman stood and walked into the light.

He was wrong. She was not his mother.

His mother's skin was rosy and alive, not the pale gray of stone. His mother's eyes were like shamrocks and sunlit leaves; this woman's were flecks of jade. The sight of his mother's face warmed him inside. This woman's beauty did not touch his heart; it was the inhuman loveliness of stars and wolves and icebergs. Her nails were long and crimson red, and on her back were folded two enormous raven wings. She was as much a thing of terror as she was of awe.

She stopped a few steps before him. He just sat there watching her, numb and unmoving, feeling the cold light of fear blotting out all thought from his mind.

When she spoke, her teeth looked strong and sharp.

"I am Dahlia."

_To be continued_

_Author's Notes:_

_1. Apologies to everyone for the delay on this chapter. I've been away too long and I can feel how hard it is to get back on the saddle. This year I will move things along at a quicker pace, for your peace of mind as well as mine._

_2. Thank you so much for your good wishes. I am enjoying my married life so much—I don't remember being so happy for such an extended period of time. And I look forward to all that it has to bring for me._

_3. The lines "Must it be?" and "It must be" were words Ludwig von Beethoven wrote on the score of his last quartet._

_4. It took 22 long chapters for me to realize that all this time I have been writing about the Odyssey. Isn't the subconscious mind a funny thing? In this tale you have a hero whose primary concern is to make it back home to Ithaca where his beloved awaits. Two gods fight to either bring him home or throw him off course. Enemies accost him at every turn, and his journey takes longer and longer than he could ever have expected. And at some point, he must deal with a sorceress._

_This chapter marks a turning point in the story of TPATS, the end of one story arc and the beginning of another. There has been a lot of darkness in this tale, but from now on every step we take will be a step towards hope. Hope and Ithaca. _


	23. Interludes

**The Phoenix and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Interlude 1: Seasons in Shadow**

Excerpts from the chronicles of Ciaran McCallow:

**_September, 1996_**

_The Phoenix War officially began the night of September 5th, when the Dark Army attacked the Welsh wizarding village of Thistleberry, killing five civilians and injuring scores of others. While there were sporadic abductions and some Death Eater activity, the real invasion occurred two weeks later, when the ghost ship The Flying Dutchman swept in from the English Channel, bearing the Death Eater army that conquered Portsmouth, and later on, Southampton…_

…_The Battle of Vespers, led by Captains Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, was the first major victory by the Order of the Phoenix. Enemy soldiers captured at this time allowed the Order access to some valuable information on Death Eater movements, and also set the Dark Army's timetable back by several days…_

_While it seemed that the threat of the Dark Army could be swiftly contained, disaster befell the Order. On September 22nd, the Ministry of Magic, in a move to quell what it deemed to be anti-government forces, blanketed the country in a suppressive field known as the Black Barrier. In an instant, the Order's meticulous system for transportation and communication was sabotaged. As the Dark Army wasted no time attacking the weakened Order, Commander Bishop concluded that the government and Voldemort were in league…_

…_The enemy surged west into Wales and threatened Birmingham to the north. Cardiff, Bristol, and Dover fell in quick succession. London became a battleground, a site of vicious urban warfare the likes of which were not seen since the battle with Grindelwald in Berlin. By the start of October, the forces of the Phoenix were all over the map._

_How can one fully describe the terror of manning an Order outpost? Those men and women would wait into the wee hours, each one cold and tired and terrified, waiting until at last the night came alive with shouting and terrible, bestial sounds. Then the Weepers would come, bursting from the night like nightmares made flesh, and the Dark Mark would shroud the sky. How could one fully describe the desperation involved in the fighting, where the point was just to hold out long enough for help to arrive, knowing that that help may come too late, or not at all?_

**_October, 1996_**

…_The Ministry instigated a literal witch-hunt for the Order, preventing its agents from acting openly. Sympathizers were "invited" for questioning, and even celebrities like folk singer Aliora Syrrh were not immune; she was forced go underground when the Ministry openly called for her detention. Albus Dumbledore himself was summoned before the Wizengamot to answer for his supposed subversive activities, though lack of proof and testimonies of his being at Hogwarts at the time forced the Ministry to grudgingly release him after only a week…_

…_Day after day, the pressure on the Order steadily mounted. While the deadly Weepers could be held in check by the Golems, not even these could not hold out against the sheer power of the giants. These juggernauts descended from the mountains in the west, laying waste to several villages and bridges in the area. It was all the Ministry could do to disguise these sighting as natural disasters and erase any memories of the giants from the Muggle public…_

…_The Order resorted to subterfuge and hit-and-run tactics. Death Eaters soon feared to enter any wooded area, let they be ambushed by Centaur bowmen. In the night, teams of Golem riders harassed enemy fortifications, only to melt away before reinforcements and the morning sun arrived. And try as they might through torture and deceit, the location of the Summit, the Order's nexus of activities, remained a mystery to the Dark Army._

_Despite these and the valiant acts of many unsung heroes, it seemed that the wizarding world would fall to Voldemort before the year was out. For the Order, times became increasingly desperate. Something more was needed to tip the balance._

_That something came on November 1st._

**_November, 1996_**

…_Voldemort's grand plan was to exact maximum terror on the populace by striking the nation's economic nerve point. He had also plotted to pin the blame on the Order of the Phoenix by leaving fabricated evidence at the site. To this end, Death Eaters infiltrated the lower levels of the Gringott's bank and installed several Quake Condensers on its foundations and primary pillars. They were supposed to escape before the Condensers went off._

_All but one got out. Felix Pike, a thief turned Death Eater, slipped away to help himself to some treasure he had unlocked in a vault. When the Condensers activated, he was buried beneath the rubble along with 200 Goblin bankers, 135 human employees, and 147 clients. _

_Fortunately for Pike, he survived. Unfortunately for the Dark Army, the Goblins found him first._

_After the Goblins made Pike spill his guts (he was never found again, so one may take that literally as well), they announced a blood feud against Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters on the morning of November 3rd. A panicked Minister Fudge attempted to open channels of communication to the Goblins, hoping to explain that the Order of the Phoenix was the most likely culprit of Gringott's collapse. The Goblins were not impressed, and informed the Minister that it was none of his affair… _

… _In the next two days, as many as 3,000 Goblins swarmed in from Sweden and France, bearing ships, weapons and war machines. Two simultaneous attacks in Wales and Southampton crippled the Death Eater defenses, as well as turning much of the wizarding populace there into refugees in the process. The Order of the Phoenix wasted no time: they doubled their guerilla efforts. Professor Dumbledore opened the doors of Hogwarts to refugees, earning both public goodwill and government enmity…_

…_After a week of fighting, Lord Voldemort ordered his men to pay an indemnity to the Goblins. A meeting was set on November 10th, in an abandoned warehouse near the Thames River. And while a meeting did occur, it improved Goblin relations not one bit. _

_The Death Eater delegation came twenty minutes late. Instead of offering apologies and opening negotiations when they arrived, the officer-in-charge, Antonin Dolohov, began taunting the Goblin negotiators, calling them names that I will not repeat here. Before the Goblins could retaliate, Dolohov's companions open-fired at the struts of the warehouse. All parties beat a hasty retreat as the roof collapsed. The Death Eaters left via getaway boat waiting on the Thames. _

_The attempted murder of their envoys that night set the Goblin Army howling with fury. They declared total war, and rejected all attempts of communication from both the Dark Army and the Ministry. They were, however, open to a tactical alliance with the Order of the Phoenix._

_Commander Bishop later revealed to me that the Death Eater negotiators had in fact never made it to their meeting. Having found out about it through their spy on Onyx Isle, a team of Aurors from the Order had waylaid the Death Eaters and stolen their clothes. The Goblins were familiar with Dolohov, so I can only conclude that such a successful ruse must have required nothing less than the skills of a talented Metamorphagus…_

_…In the month that followed, the tide of war swung wildly from one end to the other. The Dark Army realized it had overreached itself, and pulled its forces out of the interior to defend their borders against Goblin incursion. The giants, fearing the cold weather, retreated to their mountain havens and could not be coerced to come out before the spring. The Order used this breathing room to elude Ministry forces and recruit more members from the populace, yet their weakened state and their near-depleted supplies prevented them from making decisive strikes against Voldemort's struggling forces._

_By the beginning of December, the Order of the Phoenix and the Dark Army found themselves in a deadlock._

_

* * *

_

**Interlude 2: Sleeper**

Death Eaters, all members of the upper hierarchy of the Dark Army, held themselves stiffly within the audience chamber of their fortress. Most of them had each, in their turn, suffered what they were witnessing before them, so they could not help wincing in remembered pain.

Captain Magnus Aragon swayed where he stood. He had endured nearly 15 minutes worth of the Cruciatus Curse from the Dark Lord, collapsing to his knees three times in the process. Each time he did so, Lord Voldemort ordered him back on his feet. Magnus had been built to endure: he had neither fallen unconscious nor cried out, but his glazed eyes betrayed his fraying strength.

"Let us be clear, Captain." The voice of the Dark Lord slithered from the recesses of his hood (he never removed his hood nowadays, and his voice sounded…different). "Tell me again: there were three individuals. The Auror and two boys."

"Yes, my lord."

"Those two boys—neither one of them was Harry Potter."

"Neither one fit his description, my lord."

"You confronted them and tried to bring them in for questioning."

"Yes, my lord."

"You fought them. You were defeated. By a boy."

"Yes."

Beside him, Avery felt Lucius Malfoy fidget in his seat. Magnus had taken a long time returning and recuperating from his wounds before at last coming to report, which angered their lord even further. Once, Malfoy had held Magnus in the highest esteem. Now he looked as if his nephew was something to be scraped from beneath his boot.

"You have displeased me, Captain," the Dark Lord continued. "Now that you know the cost of my displeasure, perhaps you will do well to avoid it." He stood up, and everyone else followed with an air of relief. It had been a bad fortnight all around, with the loss of the giants, the Goblin attacks, and now this.

"You are relieved of your post as captain of the Onyx Wing. You will be relegated to Gaolkeeper in the dungeons, until such time as when I judge you worthy of a higher purpose."

Magnus bowed his head. "If it is your will."

The Dark Lord turned and left through a side door. The Death Eaters bowed as he left, then began to leave through the main exit. They put a gap between themselves and Magnus, wide enough for a carriage to pass through.

"Well, that was a thorough waste of time," Rookwood chuckled to Avery as they strode through the dank stone hallway. "Did you see the look on Malfoy's face? It looked like his eyes were going to bore holes into the poor boy's head."

"Indeed," replied his companion. "A pity. Captain Aragon was primed for greater things."

"Not anymore. Too bad for him. Too bad for Malfoy. His pawn never made queen… and it seems he's not done spewing fire yet."

They slowed down as they reached an adjoining hallway, where two figures stood cloaked in shadow. The taller one, Lucius, loomed over the slight build of his companion.

"Rookwood," said Avery, "go on ahead. I'll catch up with you later."

The other man gave him an odd look. "All right," he said, walking on. "Don't forget—we should go over Lord Voldemort's plans later tonight. Eight sharp, war room."

"I won't forget," Avery said, but he was barely paying attention. His gaze was focused on the pair before him, and he drifted closer to eavesdrop.

"For the last time, Draco," Lucius hissed, "the answer is _no_."

"Father, I know I can be more useful out here than in Hogwarts. You're close to the Dark Lord. You could—"

"I could what? Give you a rank? Propose to send you on a mission? I've already had that imbecile ruin my chances, you think I'll let my ignorant son make me look like a fool?"

Draco muttered something under his breath. Lucius's hand flew out to his son's neck, slamming him against the wall.

"I would watch my tongue if I were you." Malfoy's voice was soft and poisonous. "I did not become close to our lord's ear for being merciful."

He released him and stalked down the hall. Draco stood frozen where he was, head down, and looking as if he had been forced-fed something bitter. He did not hear Avery approach from the shadows.

"He's right, Draco."

The boy lifted his eyes, surprised and angry.

"It is not your place to be here," Avery went on. "You should not have run away from school."

"Who are you to tell me what to do?" Draco spat. "You've no business—"

"I give you advice freely, based on my years in service of our lord. There is no easy path to greatness. Go back to school. You can serve him best by staying there, by learning from his enemies…"

"The Dark Lord has his own lackey in Hogwarts! I want to be where the fighting is, where I can do something worthy!" His lip curled as he stared at the older man. "And I don't recall asking you for advice!"

"You are young and rash. Your chance will come one day, but you must bide your time."

"No wonder you're nothing more than the army messenger-boy," laughed Draco, turning on his heel. "Waiting is for cowards."

Avery watched in silent annoyance as the boy vanished down the corridor. 'The young,' he thought. 'How little they think of learning.'

Then he gasped, his hand flying to his chin. The flesh on his face was horripilating, like his skin was trying to crawl off of his flesh. Yanking his hood over his head, he sprinted back down the hall, avoiding the sickly light of nearby torches.

When he arrived at his chamber in the lower levels of the fortress, he let himself in and bolted the door. Breathing hard, he pulled down his hood and stared at his reflection at the mirror across the room.

Avery's lean visage had all but melted away, but it was all right now. He was safe within the four walls of his room. He had brewed enough Polyjuice Potion to last him a week. Beyond that, he had enough of Avery's hair to last him long into winter. And as for Avery himself, he would not be bothering to correct this little deception for some time, would he? Not while he lay sedated in his cell, a hundred miles away in The Summit.

For as long as the Dark Army believed it was Avery in their midst, he had nothing to fear. They would entrust him with their secrets.

All he had to do was bide his time.

Severus Snape smiled as he brought his ragged breathing under control. "You're wrong, Draco," he whispered, pushing the sweat-slicked hair from his face. "In the end, victory belongs to the patient."

_To be continued_

_Author's notes:_

_WHAT? THAT'S IT? Yep. Something short and sweet, really, just a little break before we dive back into the plot. Hope to post that one before the month is out.  
_

_Chapter XXIII: Broken Mirror, A Million Shades Of Light_


	24. Broken Mirror, A Million Shades of Light

**The Phoenix and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter XXIII: Broken Mirror, A Million Shades of Light**

The little niffler knew very few things about the world, but he considered the things he _did_ know very, very important. The first was his name—Nap. Sometimes it was Napoleon, but mostly it was just plain Nap. When someone spoke his name, it usually meant one of two things depending on the speaker's tone: either he had just done something naughty, or it was time to eat.

The second thing he knew was the Tall Boy. He recognized the Tall Boy by sight and scent. The Tall Boy called him by name and spoke to him kindly and made things around the little house right. He knew much more than the little niffler did, like how to chase off weasels, how to make delicious poached eggs, and how to scratch the niffler's tummy on just the right spot to make him quiver with delight.

Nap had been waiting in the little shack in the woods for the Tall Boy to come home, and he had been waiting a long time.

He had not been alone, of course, for he had the chickens for company. But chickens were silly things, always clucking around and scratching at the ground, and were useless for anything except chasing around the yard, a game that grew pretty tiresome for the little niffler. It was simply his task to watch over them. He could not even make meals from their eggs. He tried eating one raw once—it was crunchy and gooey and blecchy all at once, and he got pecked on the head several times for his trouble.

So Nap had to rely on his old diet—grubs and worms and mushrooms and whatever else he could find just above the ground or beneath it. He had gotten so used to cooked food it was difficult going back to foraging, but he had no choice. He tried the chicken feed once, and it was horrible. He thought that if he ate enough of it he would become as silly as a chicken.

During the day, when there was little to do, he would lie on the welcome mat and sun himself. Every hour he would climb a fence post to watch for weasels. At night, after herding all the chickens back into the coop, he would slip through the little door the Tall Boy had built into the big door and curl up in his wicker basket beside the fireplace. This was more out of habit than anything, for there was no fire. If it got too cold, like during rainy nights, Nap would jump onto the suspended bed and burrow beneath the covers. It was always warm there, and smelled very much like the Tall Boy.

There was nothing for the little niffler to do but wait. He could not count days, but on clear nights he noticed that the bright sphere in the sky had changed shape many times. It also got colder with each passing day, and as Nap watched the brown-as-toast leaves skating down from nearby trees, he knew that it would not be long before the silver powder would start sifting down from the gray sky, and the forest would sleep once again beneath a cold white blanket. He wished the Tall Boy would come back, for it was never good to be out when the blanket came down. One might catch a cold, which was the most terrible thing—how could anyone sniff for grub or shiny stuff when they had a cold?

Time passed, and still the Tall Boy did not return. He had never been away this long, and as the days passed and sunlit hours became shorter and shorter, it began to grow on Nap that his friend may never come back. That the Tall Boy had forgotten all about the little niffler, who still waited as patiently as he could in the little shack in the woods.

One chilly morning as Nap was busy cleaning up the yard (he made the best of sweeping up dried leaves with his paws or trapping them with his mouth), a familiar sound caught his attention. It was the high-pitched squeak of metal on metal, and Nap's eyes followed its meager cry up, up to the pole by the fence, up to where the steel arrows were lashed together at the top. One of them was pointing at the forest path, announcing something in large, muddy letters.

Nap did not know what the sign meant, for he could not read. He did realize that something was coming down the path towards the house, and toddled over to the front gate to look.

It did not take long before he spied several shapes coming out of the trees. People! Nap wagged his whole bottom in joy and relief. Was the Tall Boy finally coming home? As the figures neared, however, he realized that none of them looked or smelled like his friend. Nap had never met strangers without the Tall Boy around…

_Strangers!_

Nap decided to hide. He was just about to plunge into the ground when he remembered something: the Tall Boy had tasked him to take care of things while he was gone. What if these men were like big weasels, come to take the chickens away? The Tall Boy would scold him for sure. Even worse, without the chickens there would be no more poached eggs! He could not let that happen—life would become unbearable!

In his distress, Nap found himself running about in circles on the grass. He came to a halt when he heard one of them men call out, "Is anyone there?"

That settled it for Nap. He would hide, but not far. He would take cover somewhere in the house until he could find out what these men were up to. He zipped through his little door and ducked beneath the shadows of the bureau, which was his favorite hiding place whenever the Tall Boy was mad at him.

Not two seconds after Nap had slipped beneath the bureau, the front door swung open. The little niffler held his breath as he saw a pair of booted feet step slowly into the house.

"Looks like no one's home," the voice said.

Just then, Nap heard a heavy, terrifying _clunk! _as another man stepped into the house. This man responded to the one who entered first in a low, gravelly voice, which would have sounded familiar to Nap had the niffler not been too scared to listen.

"He hasn't made it back," said the second man. "After all this time, he still hasn't come back."

"Where on earth could he be?" asked his companion.

"I don't know, but with winter rolling in he's going to have to take shelter somewhere. And if he slows down, no doubt the Dark Army would sniff him out."

"We're sure then, sir? The Dark Army's after him?"

"That's what our spy tells us."

"You don't suppose they got him already?"

The second man gave an annoyed grunt, and his companion seemed to shrink back.

"He won't let himself get caught—he's outfoxed smarter foes," growled the other man. Then, more gently, "Besides, no word's come through our spy of any prisoner fitting his description. No, Danny's a free man yet."

"Well, we certainly won't find him hanging around here. Now what?"

"Plan B." The man clomped to the front door again and shouted, "Grant! Emerson! Unpack those cages and load up the chickens! We're taking them with us!"

"Good on you, sir," said the first man. "We sure could use the poultry."

The second man said, "They're not for eating. We're taking them with us."

"What? But—"

"They're my godson's source of income. I want them intact for when he returns."

The first man lapsed into a puzzled silence.

Just then, a kerfuffle caught the niffler's attention: a pair of hens ran past the open doorway, followed by a man in hot pursuit. Nap realized that what he suspected all along was true—these men were like weasels, out to get the chickens. They had to be stopped. And while the niffler knew he had no hope against these men, he had to try for the sake of the Tall Boy—and the poached eggs.

Letting out what he hoped was a roar (it came out more like honk), Nap lunged out of shadows, scuttled across the floor, and bit down as hard as he could on the second man's clawed foot.

Unfortunately, the foot was made not out of flesh, but of wood. Nap let go, his teeth rattling in his head and his eyes gaze spinning in slow circles. He staggered backwards in a daze, but was just as quickly swept up by a pair of strong hands. Before he knew it, he was eye to eye with the owner of the clawed foot.

"So that's where you've been hiding," said the man, peering at Nap. "It was too dark to see you under there."

Nap's eyes focused on the gnarled face, and realized who this man was. This was the Tall Boy's friend, Crooked-Face! The niffler wagged his bottom happily at the familiar sight.

"How've you been, little fella?" Crooked-Face asked, looking him over. "Taking care of the place, have you?" Little Nap wagged even faster.

Crooked-Face's friend approached them, peering at Nap. "Is that a mole?"

"It's a niffler, Barney. Are those eyes of yours painted on?" Crooked-Face brought Nap a little closer. "Listen, little fella. Obviously Danny's not here yet, and we don't know when he's coming back. Didn't plan to leave longer than two weeks, see. So I've decided to take care of his perishables for him. That includes you, you get me?"

Nap didn't understand a word he said. He was too busy wagging his bottom, like a dog about to be given a delicious treat.

Crooked-Face held the niffler in his arms and left the house. As they passed through the yard, Nap saw that the other two men were busy rounding up the last of the chickens.

"We never did find him, Danny," Moody muttered to the niffler. "He and Harry vanished, and though we tried our best to track them down, the Dark Army was always at our heels. But I'll find them. You mark my word."

He threw a glance behind him. "Barney! Lock up behind you and tack the note on the door. Grant, Emerson, get those chickens ready for transport." He turned to Nap and spoke softly, "As for you, you've nothing to worry about. I'm taking you with me to the safest place there is, perhaps the last safe place there is."

Nap, of course, still did not understand a word. He only knew he was being taken away from the only real home he had ever known, and his tiny ears flattened in distress. But then he thought, this man knew the Tall Boy very well. Perhaps he was taking Nap to where the Tall Boy was. Nap twisted around to look at the old man's face. It was not like most others he had seen—in the niffler's opinion, large chunks of it were either missing or inside-out. Nevertheless, he could sense kindness behind that gnarled visage. He could trust this man.

So the little niffler settled himself as comfortably as possible in Crooked-Face's arms. He did not know what was going to happen next, but he felt in his heart that whatever it was, he was going to be all right.

* * *

The winter came too soon. 

Ginny had that thought as she saw the gray stretch of sky outside the window of the girl's dormitory. It had been like that for days, and sometimes she wondered if the sun had simply given up and couldn't be bothered anymore.

She, however, had to show up everyday—there was work to be done. Today Professor McGonagall had asked her, along with the rest of the Gryffindors, to donate any extra quilts and pillows they had for the refugees stationed in the Great Hall, for like most other things in the castle nowadays, there was not enough to go around.

Not all of the other Gryffindor girls were in a hurry to give away their second or third layer of blankets—the days were doubly cold now, and the nights were much longer. Hermione had taken it upon herself as prefect to make sure that what could be spared would be given away.

"Honestly," she said to Ginny as they folded a quilt together, "some of those people came here with only their clothes on their backs. It's the least we can do for them, especially the little kids."

Ginny nodded. Now was the time for sharing. It was going to be a harsh winter, she could already tell from the way the sky scowled and the wind rattled the windows at night, leaving frosty fingerprints on the glass. The days wanted to be cold, wanted to get on with the sleet and the icicles and the frozen lakes and the endless tracts of snow, leaving anyone wandering out there in the wild to catch his death…

Hermione was speaking again, mostly complaints about how some students were ignoring their duties towards the less fortunate, and how the house elves were left to pay the price for their selfishness through longer working hours. Ginny only half-listened to her rants, but she observed the shadows beneath her friend's eyes, and how the corners of her mouth turned down.

"Hermione," said Ginny, after they had finished with the last quilt. "Are you okay?"

"Huh?" Hermione, about to stalk off to look over the rest of the bedding, stopped in mid-stride.

"You seem so tired, and you look like you have a lot on your mind. I was wondering…?"

Hermione sighed and looked down at the quilt in her hands. "I'm sorry if I'm getting you down, Ginny," she finally said. "It's just that…it's been so hard, ever since Harry…"

She let her words trail off. Ginny could sense how much she did not want to finish that sentence.

"I feel terrible, to be honest," said Hermione, giving a little laugh. "Like some part of me was cut off, but I don't know which one. All I know is I'm missing it and it hurts all over."

"I know," Ginny whispered. It was true, still sadly true even now. Whenever she tried to think of Harry her thoughts seemed to hit dead ends. Since that night when Dumbledore told them there was nothing to do but wait, it felt as if a chasm had opened up inside of her, cutting her off from all that made her feel joy and grief and anger. Even hope seemed to taper off and die with every passing day they came closer to winter. Strange how much despair could be wrought by just a tender fall of snow.

"It's only gotten worse for us, hasn't it?" Hermione went on. "I mean, Ron…"

She fell silent, and Ginny felt a sudden stab of concern. "What about my brother?" She had not seen much of her brother except during Quidditch practice, where he served as captain now that Katie Bell's parents had whisked her away to some obscure safe haven.

"Oh…" Hermione gave a nonchalant, flyaway gesture with her hand. "It's not that important, really."

"If that's what's getting you down these days, then I think it's that important," Ginny countered. "Have you two been fighting?"

"No, nothing like that. It…it would be great if it was something like that, actually." Hermione cast her eyes down, and Ginny cursed her elder brother. Of all the people he had to hurt…

"He-he never talks to me anymore, Ginny," Hermione said. "He doesn't tell me if he's all right inside. He doesn't tell me anything. I look at his face and…and there's no warmth there. Not like before. And he never has time anymore. He's supposed to be here, helping me out, but he's busy with something. He's always busy with something, but he never says what. Makes some kind of excuse about more Quidditch practice—which I know isn't true because you have no more of that than he does." Her voice dropped a notch. "I've never seen him like this. Sometimes, he won't even look at me."

Ginny's eyes opened wide. Hermione was right; that was not like Ron at all, and part of her got mad that her brother would start shutting out people the way…the way Harry did once.

As if things weren't bad enough!

"Let me talk to him," Ginny fumed. She'd straighten the git out.

"No, Ginny, please don't." Hermione shook her head. "We should let him come 'round on his own. I mean, if there's something important, he's not the type to keep it to himself, is he? He's got to talk to me sometime. I'll just wait until he does."

"He's my brother, Hermione, and whether he knows it or not he's hurting you! I ought to do something!"

"I think letting him sort things out first is doing a lot, Ginny. And as for me…" Hermione smiled. "I trust him enough to remember I'm here for him."

With that, Ginny could say no more. Typical of Hermione to play peacekeeper, but never mind. She'd keep an eye on Ron and if she caught him falling out of line, God help him. There was a reason her middle name was "Molly."

They picked up whatever beddings they could gather and joined the rest of the girls on the way to the Great Hall.

* * *

After Dumbledore had announced that Hogwarts was open to all wizards left destitute by the ongoing chaos, the school's Board of Trustees was thrown into its own kind of chaos—some agreed with the decree's humanitarian cause, others were vehemently opposed, stating that it was impossible for their children to continue studying with the masses milling about at every corner. But Dumbledore won in the end. As early as October, refugees started arriving to Hogwarts. Reminiscent of her second year during the Sirius Black incident, the Great Hall was cleared and turned into a shelter. Most of the grounds were closed to the visitors and classes continued as best they could. But the problem of space was soon aggravated by the problem of supplies. The food stores were strained to the breaking point, and the entire house elf contingent had to work double shifts just to make ends meet. In response, Professor Sprout began cultivating fast-growing food crop in the greenhouses, and recruited students like Neville to help out. 

The studentry at first did not take well to these sudden changes—they were used to the comfort of having the place to themselves, with enough food to serve anyone's wants. But there were no complaints; everyone pitched in, even the Slytherins. It helped, of course, that there was no one around to stir things up: Draco Malfoy had pulled a sudden vanishing act late the month before. His parents had been duly informed, but his mother had replied that her beloved son had been so concerned with his family's welfare that he had decided to see to them first.

Before long, more and more people started streaming in from all over the country. The Great Hall eventually filled up, and other spare classrooms had to be opened up for the refugees. When December came around, there were 386 refugees within the walls of Hogwarts, about a third of them children.

The girls of Gryffindor made their way down from their tower to the Great Hall. As they approached the entrance, the girls behind Ginny suddenly started giggling, and she quickly saw why. At the entrance to the Great Hall where a long table was stationed, the head of the Refugee Assistance Committee, Professor Cowl, was once again staring at the passing figure of the head of Castle Security, Professor Summershield. He did that often enough to make Ginny uncomfortable for Professor Summershield, whom she had come to admire. Cowl was so wrapped up with watching her that Hermione, who was standing directly in front of him, had to clear her throat to catch his attention.

"More beddings, Professor," she said, in a tone that hinted the tiniest bit of reproach.

"Oh yes, of course," he said, blinking. "Ehm, I'm a little, ah, shorthanded right now, as you can see…so, um, why don't you girls bring those to Professor Sinistra at the rear end of the Hall for me?"

"You see, I have an altogether different rear end to attend to," Lavender whispered as they passed through the doorway. Ginny ignored her.

None of them enjoyed walking through the Great Hall now. The long tables and benches had been removed, and save for a few narrow pathways, the place was filled with people. They sat on benches and on blanketed floors, leaned against the stone walls, and either spoke in hushed tones or stared silently at nothing. Some had injuries swathed in bandages; others seemed to have been injured in some unseen place inside of them. They had come from Wales and Brisbon, from England and Scotland, from the capital to the meanest villages in the country. They had come with their trunks and their boxes of clothes, their family heirlooms and their books and whatever else they could not part with. Some had even come with nothing at all but their families.

They all had one thing in common and it was plain to: they each had suffered. Their eyes had horror stories to tell, the worst things she had heard over the radio and through whispered conversations—homes smashed beneath giant clubs, relatives missing, whole villages set ablaze, civilians caught in magical crossfires. Now here they were, with no homes and no hope, relying on the mercy of others alone. It hadn't taken a long time for the world to simply go mad.

'And it's not fair,' Ginny thought to herself as she helped distribute the spare blankets and pillows. It wasn't fair because through all this she had somehow managed to stay sane. She should have broken down by now, seeing her world taken apart piece by piece. She should have come undone now that she didn't know if she had a home to return to, her Mum and Dad and her elder brothers were out somewhere fighting a protracted war and Harry was nowhere to be found. Yet every morning she would open her eyes to the same drab walls and the same December skies, and the world was still intact.

It just wasn't fair that, somehow, it was still all all right.

* * *

When she got word the next day that Professor Dumbledore wanted her in his office, she guessed it likely that he'd have another task for her. A small part of her offered that it might be news about Harry, but she silenced that part like a mother shushing a persistent child. That way led nowhere now. It always did. 

As she came down the stairs of her dormitory, she caught sight of Jamie sitting by the window with Dean and Seamus and a few others. Classes were over for the day, and they were amusing themselves with a rousing game of Exploding Snap. The homunculus now seemed adept at his part as Harry, holding up well without much guidance despite the extension of his role. Every day he seemed more and more like a normal, teen-aged boy. His face lit up when he caught sight of her and he excused himself from them, eliciting some good-natured ribbing on their part.

She smiled as he approached. She and Jamie were so often together now that other people had started up the whispering and giggling again. They always assumed the simplest explanation. No one of them knew that nowadays it was often difficult for her to look at him.

"Hi!" he said, beaming at her.

"Hello, Jamie," she said. "You seem awfully happy."

"I am. Remember the song you taught me yesterday, '_Greenwaves_'? I reckon I've gotten it down pat now. Would you like to hear it?"

"Okay, but I'm supposed to meet someone in a few minutes. Maybe later?"

"Sure. Catch you later, then!" And still smiling, he hurried back his comrades. Ginny threw a backward glance at him as she climbed through the portrait hole. Sometimes, when he was absorbed in a book or at looking at something far away, the image of Harry was so complete it came as a blow to her senses. But then he would look up at her and the illusion simply vanished, as if she had emerged from a room of trick mirrors. Jamie's eyes did not have the deep, guarded look that Harry's did. He was a child, a younger brother. That was how she thought of him, and how she managed to stay sane.

Many minutes later Ginny she found herself standing before the headmaster's door. She knocked, and Professor Dumbledore called out, "Enter."

The sight of Dumbledore and Mad-Eye Moody standing by the window immediately greeted her as she came inside. Dumbledore was smiling at her, and bade her to sit. Moody nodded his greeting.

"How are you today, Ginny?" Dumbledore asked her.

"Fine, sir," Ginny lied. "Is there anything I could help you with?"

Dumbledore brushed a hand through his beard. "As a matter of fact...but I'll let Alastor explain it. It is, after all, his idea." He nodded to the Auror.

"Yes, well," Moody coughed and cleared his throat. She had known him since she was a child; he was a frequent guest at the Burrow, particularly when her father had to straighten out some trouble regarding the Auror's overzealous manner.

"Thing is," he said, "I would like to ask a favor of you, missy, if that's all right."

"Well, okay," Ginny replied, "but what sort of favor?"

"It's nothing big, mind you, but it would really help if you could…uh…" He paused, scratching his ear with his pinkie, then said, "Look, I understand you like animals."

Ginny blinked.

"Well? You do, don't you?"

"Um, yes?"

"And you know how to care for them, right?"

"That…depends on the animal, sir."

She was distracted by a sudden scratching noise, and her eyes fell upon an object she hadn't noticed before: a straw basket sat beside the chair opposite hers. The sound was coming from in there.

"The hell with it," muttered Moody as he lurched over to the basket and opened the lid. "Might as well get the introductions over with. C'mon boy, there's someone you have to meet."

Ginny instinctively drew back, expecting a snake or something equally nasty, as she often experienced in Hagrid's classes. Her eyes grew wide when the old man drew out the furry body of an odd little animal. Moody held it out to her, and she recognized a niffler.

"Miss Weasley," said the Auror, "this is Napoleon, or Nap as he likes to be called. Nap, this is Ginny Weasley."

The niffler blinked its black button eyes at her and sneezed. Ginny's heart instantly melted.

"Ohhhhh, he's adorable!" She reached out and took the niffler in her hands. The little animal sniffed at her nose, making her grin. "Hello, Nap, I'm pleased to meet—ooof!" She gasped as Nap stuck out his snout to sniffle at the earring in her ear. "Hey! That tickles!"

Dumbledore and Moody exchanged approving glances, and Moody said. "He belongs to my godson, Danny. Danny was one of Harry's bodyguards and…well, he hasn't come back and we don't know where he is. Yet. I decided to put this little fella up here for the winter. Thought he might take to Hagrid's pumpkin patch. We needed someone to look in on him every now and then, and Albus suggested you."

"So you're asking me to take care of him?" Ginny asked, beaming.

"Would you like to?"

Ginny could not abide the thought that something so cute should spend the winter alone. "Of course I will! But what do I need to do? I mean, I've never taken care of a niffler before." She held up Nap to her face again, and he touched his nose to hers and made her giggle.

Moody looked visibly relieved. "Not to worry. Low-maintenance, these nifflers. You just need to make sure he has enough food and water, and maybe keep him company every now and then. Like a dog, or something. Oh, and he prefers poached eggs."

"Poached eggs. Got it."

"That's all there is to it, then," concluded Moody.

"Then we have struck a happy medium," Dumbledore said, coming up from behind them. "Thank you very much, Ginny. I've already informed Mr. Filch of the latest addition to our guest list. Let me know if there is anything you'll need. I want little Nap to feel he is most welcome here in Hogwarts."

Minutes later, she was bearing her new friend down the spiraling staircase with her. "I'm taking you to Hagrid's," she told Nap, who wagged his tail with every word she said. "There's a warm little tool shed there where we could put you up, and you can come out and play in the snow whenever you want. I'll bring you food and water and keep you company every day. Would you like that?" The niffler made a small honking noise that sounded like approval.

Dumbledore was accompanying them down the stairway. Moody, saying he had pressing business to attend, left ahead of them, the clumping of his peg leg receding into the distance. Ginny had noticed how weary he looked; fatigue and lack of sleep seemed to have etched themselves long onto his face. She wondered if Dumbledore was having him perform some difficult task.

"I really appreciate your taking the trouble with this, Ginny," Dumbledore said. "It means a lot to me."

"Oh, it's no trouble," Ginny replied, cuddling Nap close. "He'll be a little dear, I'm sure."

"It will mean a lot to Danny as well."

She nodded. "I'm sorry to hear he's missing."

"I'm sure we shall find him," Dumbledore replied. "We found signs of him everywhere in the forests to the south. In time he will resurface, and where he does, there we shall find Harry."

Ginny's face seemed to freeze at these words. "Right," was all she could say.

Dumbledore turned to look at her at that. "Is something the matter?"

"Nothing, sir." They had reached the bottom of the stairs. Nap was getting heavy, so she put him down on the cobblestone floor for a moment. The little niffler immediately dashed off to inspect a nearby suit of well-polished armor.

She could tell from the corner of her eye that Dumbledore was studying her, so she kept her gaze studiously away from him.

"You don't think he's coming back, do you," he asked at length. "Harry."

"I don't know," she replied tonelessly. "I don't know anything. All I know is it's been three months. Winter's come and it's cold out there, without anything to eat for anyone."

"No, you shouldn't think that," said Dumbledore, shaking his head. "Don't think about the odds."

He came to stand before her, meeting her eyes. "Harry Potter," he said gravely, "has beaten all the odds. He did so as baby, facing the most powerful dark wizard known to man. He beat the odds time and again in all his years in Hogwarts. And he did so many, many times on this mission he took. Every obstacle the Dark Lord sent against him, Ginny, every one. That is why I am certain he is still alive. Certain as I breathe."

Ginny realized her own breathing had gone funny, like her lungs were trying to inhale and exhale at the same time. "You're asking me to hope," she said in what she hoped sounded like a neutral voice. "You're asking me to hope when there's not a shred of reason—"

"With a little proof, anyone can hope for anything," Dumbledore said. "But when there is no proof at all—what then? It takes something more to keep on going. It takes a little more courage to believe in things you cannot see or account for. It's called faith, Ginny, and it begins where hope ends.

"Who else is going to have faith in Harry, if not his friends?"

With that, he turned and disappeared up the stairway.

Ginny stood stock still, absorbing the old man's words. No, they still refused to make sense to her just now. Instead, she felt as if someone had lit a firebrand in her skull, and…

_How dare he_, she seethed. How dare he tell her this unhappy bit of encouragement? How dare he tell her to have faith? What did he know about waiting and suffering in silence? What did _he _know?

She drew her sleeve across her eyes to wipe away a sudden tear, and stood there for a minute, putting herself back together. When she felt more in control, she raised her head to call back Nap.

But the little niffler had vanished.

She blinked and looked wildly about. "Nap?" she called. "Nap, where are you?" There was no response, of course, and with that Ginny heaved a sigh and tore down the hall to look for him.

She skidded to a halt at the nearest adjoining corridor and surveyed the area. No sign of the little beast, but the carpet here had prints over them. She followed them down the hall, calling all the while. "Come here, boy!" she cried, "C'mon Nap, don't make me look for you!"

As she followed the corridor, she realized she had wandered into an area of the castle that had not seen much recent use. It was quiet, for one thing, and there were fewer painting and tapestries here, and no armor displays at all. Some of the old-style furniture even had a thin layer of dust on them. On either side of her were rows of closed doors that seemed to be storage rooms. Surely there was nothing here to catch an inquisitive niffler's interest.

She stopped before one painting of an old noble in a smoking jacket to ask if he'd seen a niffler pass by, but like most other paintings here he was fast asleep. She turned to go, but then her eye caught a slight movement at the bend of the corridor. That did not look like a niffler at all, she thought.

"Hello?" she called. No response. Whoever it was probably hadn't heard her. She thought of going, but if that someone had seen her niffler…

She strode to the end of the corridor and peered around the corner. She managed to catch sight of someone stopping before a narrow wooden door a few yards away. Someone who sported the same shade of red hair as she did.

Ron, she realized, as she watched her brother knock on the door—two fast raps followed by a light one—and it opened for him. What on earth was he doing in such an out-of-the-way place? And who was he meeting?

When the door shut behind him, she hurried over and put her ear against it, ignoring the stringy cobwebs stretching across its frame. There were two muffled voice from the other side, one distinctly her brother's, the other belonging to a girl. Gingerly, she tried the latch; the door was unlocked, and it swung open just a crack. It was enough—through the little gap she could see two figures standing by the wide, dusty window. Upon seeing them, Ginny drew in a sharp breath. The girl in the room was…Cho Chang.

"Ron, are you all right?" asked Cho, sounding concerned.

"I'm fine," said Ron. He was turned towards the window, apparently busy with looking at something outside.

"It's just that you seem upset today."

"I'm not. I'm just…just a bit stressed, that's all."

"Is it because of Hermione?"

Ron kept silent; Cho seemed to have hit the nail on the head

She sighed. "Ron, this is really getting to you. I think it's time you talked to her. I think it's time you told her about us."

Ron turned around and leaned against the windowsill, his longs arms folded across his chest. He looked completely opposed to the idea. "I don't think I can."

"Think she'll be mad?'

"Over this? Oh hell, yes."

Cho shrugged. "You can't keep it a secret from her forever. She's a smart girl, she'll find out one way or another."

"Don't you think I know that? You don't know Hermione like I do. Once she starts something, she wants to stick to it till the end. But I…I just don't want her to get hurt. Can you blame me for that?"

Ginny felt her mind overheating from handling several thoughts at once. What in the world was going on here? Who was this idiot pretending to be her brother? And Cho—she couldn't believe that she—there had to be an explanation for—

Cho put one slim hand on Ron's shoulder to comfort him. "No, no I can't blame you. Look, do you want me to tell her?"

"NO." Ron shook his head. "It has to be me. I'll have to wait for the right time, but it has to be me. It won't work if she finds out through you."

'Bloody hell it won't, you spineless twit,' Ginny fumed. She was on the verge of simply barging in, when she felt the cool hard object—she was sure it was a wand tip—poke into the back of her neck.

"Are you going to announce yourself anytime soon," someone behind her said, "or are you just going to stand there all day eavesdropping?"

Ginny froze, sudden dread pumping into her system. Whoever it was reached out and knocked sharply on the door, letting it swing open. The sound made Ron and Cho whirl around, eyes wide, looking like two kids caught in some mischief.

"Did you invite your sister here, Weasley?" said Ginny's captor, shoving her into the room.

Ron's eyes bulged even bigger. "GINNY? What are _you _doing here?"

"I should ask you the same thing," Ginny shouted. "What in the world's going on here? What in God's name was all that I heard just now?"

"You-you heard us? Everything?" Ron's ears turned quite red.

"Please let her go, Ernie," Cho said. "There's no need to hold her." Her captor stepped in front of her, eyeing her, and she found herself facing the Quidditch Captain of Hufflepuff, Ernie McMillan.

"It wouldn't have been necessary if you weren't eavesdropping," he stated.

"That's hardly my fault, now is it?" Ginny shot back. "I came here looking for something I lost, and who should I see but my big prat of a brother sneaking around like a thief, off to some secret meeting—with you!" She glared accusingly at Cho. "Someone had better start explaining things or I will march right out and tell everyone who cares to listen what I heard in here…including Hermione!"

"No! Don't you do that!" Ron looked on the verge of panicking. "Ginny, this is absolutely none of your business!"

"But I think it _is _her business, Ron," Cho said slowly. "I think it was her business from the start, but we were a little slow on telling her."

This took Ginny aback. "What do you mean?"

"Oh no, you don't," Ron exclaimed, facing Cho. "I'm part of this group's leadership and I have a say on the decisions we make."

"Very well, you tell her, then." Cho gestured towards Ginny. "She's seen us. There's no point in denying it."

Ginny felt utterly lost. "Group? What group? What are you supposed to be telling me?"

Ron stared at her, mouth working, looking torn over what to do next. He was never the type to make quick decisions—even during wizard chess, brilliant as he was. Consequently, other people sometimes did it for him.

Ernie made an impatient noise, adjusted his glasses and said, "Listen, you might find this a little hard to believe, but the three of us—that is, the captains of the Quidditch teams—are forming an organization. Our objective is to train ourselves to fight so that we can deal with the Dark Army, if and when they show up."

Ginny gaped at him, searching his face for a trace of irony or humor. No punch line came. Ernie was dead serious.

"Excuse me?" was all she could think to say.

"Ernie's telling the truth, Ginny," Cho said gently. "The three of us joined up because we thought we could do something for the school. And we agreed the best thing we could do was to help defend it should it ever need us."

"But we're—" _just kids, _she wanted to say, but immediately cut herself off. Merlin, hadn't she thrown that excuse out last year when she told herself to grow up? Funny how easy it was to say when confronted with something like war. But the look on Cho's face took that thought away. She's an adult, thought Ginny, and so am I.

"But we're not soldiers," she ended up saying.

"Maybe not," Cho replied, "but we're students of Hogwarts, and that makes our school our responsibility. And also, as Ernie said, we're Quidditch players. I think our skills will give us an edge." She stepped towards Ginny, a small, mysterious smile appearing on her lips. "We were hoping you'd join us, Ginny. I think you're the best Chaser we've got in Hogwarts now. You're exactly what we need, so…would you like to?"

Before Ginny could open her mouth (it was going to be a yes, she realized, even before she knew all the details), Ron strode forward and took her arm. "Give us a moment, will you?" he said, shooting an irritated glance at Cho.

"Wha—Ron?" Ginny scowled as her brother tugged her to the door. "What _now_?"

"Ginny, go back to Gryffindor and forget about what happened here," said Ron. "Go on, go."

"And how do you expect me to do that after what I've heard? You really think I'll just walk away?"

He simply scowled at her.

"Well, I _want _to!" Ginny retorted.

"No."

"What do you mean, _no_? You can't just—"

"I said no and I meant it. Ginny, I'm your older brother and you ought to—"

Ginny gave a scornful laugh. "I beg your pardon, Ron. I stopped taking orders from you back when we were still in diapers, so don't even think about pulling rank on me now. Just because you're a year older doesn't mean you know what's best for me."

"This time I know exactly what's best for you. What would Mum say if she found out—"

"Exactly what she'd say if she found out the same thing about you! And you can forget about do-as-I-say, don't-do-as-I-do. I'll join if I want."

"No, you won't!" Ron shouted. "This could be dangerous business and I'm not having my younger—my only sister—involved!"

"Is that so?" Ginny retaliated. "I wonder what Hermione will think about all this, then."

Ron blinked. "What?"

"I wonder how she'll react once she finds out you've joined a secret organization out to fight the Dark Army, without even bothering to tell her? Bet she won't be happy about that."

"You won't say a word!" her brother roared.

"Oh, so you're deciding this for her too, is that it?"

"Damn right I am! If it's something this dangerous I'm not even going to think twice about it! You can forget about joining and you can forget about telling her anything—I won't have either of you mixed up in any this!"

"Mixed up in any of what, Ron?" asked an awfully familiar voice.

Ginny and Ron froze, then turned slowly towards the now open door. Standing on the threshold was Hermione, scowling at them from beneath her crown of bushy brown hair. In her arms, a dusty silver spoon in his mouth, was Nap.

"Hermione," Ron squeaked. All the color was draining away from his face. "What are—how did you—"

"I was on my way to Professor Dumbledore's to ask about our water supply," she said. "I wanted to suggest using mineral-enriched water for our food crop, but on my way there I saw this niffler," she held up Nap, "scurrying around in this hallway. I was picking it up with the idea of turning it over to Professor Grubbly-Plank, but then I heard shouting coming from this corridor. Someone even mentioned my name.

"So…Ron." She approached him, much like a cat stalking a cornered mouse. "I think you'd better tell me what everyone else," she glanced at the others around her, "seems to already know."

Ginny wished she had kept her own voice down. Ron swallowed hard; his Adam's apple bobbed up and down, and he had turned quite a lighter shade of pale. Hermione was staring at him expectantly.

"Erm," Cho began, "perhaps we should give you two some privacy." She exchanged a look with Ernie, and they exited through the doorway. Ginny was about to follow them, but first she took Nap from Hermione's arms. "He's what I came for," she told Hermione. "I'll explain later."

She left them alone, and had barely closed it before hearing Hermione's stern voice demand, "Well?"

"I get the feeling this happens often," Ernie said to her.

"Oh, often enough." Ginny shrugged. "We should just leave them alone for now. They'll work it out."

"I second that," said Cho, as the shouting began behind the door. "Is that really your niffler?"

"Oh." Ginny looked down at Nap, who still seemed bewildered but nonetheless quite content in her arms, and her mind worked quickly. "It's a long story. Basically, Dumbledore rescued him from a band of goblins illegally prospecting in the mountains. He picked me to take care of him for a while, at least until the animal shelter in London is re-opened." She looked up at Cho. "Did you mean what you said? About forming a group?"

"Every word. I'm sorry you had to find out about us in such an awkward way, but I hope you'll still think about helping us."

"I have thought about it!" Ginny said. "And I _will _help. I don't care what my prat of a brother says." She colored somewhat. "I'm the one who should apologize for barging in and jumping to conclusions."

"No harm done." Cho smiled and hugged her. "Thanks so much, Ginny. I knew I could count on you!"

Ginny hugged her back. "But tell me," she said, "how did you come up with all this? And why?"

Cho turned to Ernie, seemingly asking his permission. He sighed and crossed his arms.

"If you must," he said, seemingly without interest in the subject.

Cho nodded and turned back to Ginny. "I'll start from the beginning."

* * *

Cho met Ernie at the agreed upon place and time: 5 o'clock in the afternoon, in a grassy area beside the east wing that was long in the castle's shadow. There was a spot here, known only to Quidditch players, that had no windows along the height of the castle. No one would see you if you flew straight up along the wall and kept going all the way past the highest tower of Hogwarts, where you were only a dark speck against the bright blue sky. One could hardly do better for a private meeting. 

"This is crazy," Ernie said, looking down at the sprawling school grounds below them. The wind was low and sweet that afternoon, carrying their voices easily to one another.

"Maybe it is," Cho said, eyes also on the school, "and maybe it isn't. But I know it can be done. If you'd only help me convince the Quidditch teams…"

"That's just the thing," he said, shaking his head. "We _can't_ convince them. They're not fighters, Cho—they're confused and tired and scared. How can you expect anyone to band together like that? It can't be done."

"How do we know unless we try? I think if we want to badly enough, somehow we'll come up with a way. You're smart, Ernie, and you're a good Quidditch captain. You could think of something."

But Ernie was still shaking his head. "Cho, why do this? Professor Dumbledore and the others will protect us. It's their duty, and we'll only get in their way. I don't understand…" He paused. "This is about Cedric, isn't it?"

Cho turned her gaze away from Hogwarts to look at him, her eyes wide and dark. No, she would hide nothing. He had known Cedric long before she did, and he deserved the truth.

"Yes, it's about him," she answered. "And it's about so much more. It's about what he loved best when he was still alive, Ernie: _Hogwarts_. That's why I asked you to meet me here, so we you could see Hogwarts the way I see it. The way _he _once saw it.

"Yes, it's true, Dumbledore and the rest of the professors are here to protect the students, and yes, it's their duty to do so. But it's also the duty of the students to protect the school, _because it's our home and we're never going to have anything like it again_. It's given us so much—shouldn't we try and give something back? Cedric would've said the same thing were he alive, I know he would. That's why I'm saying it now."

The wind had picked up, and Cho's hair floated behind her like a dark shroud. Ernie held on tightly to his broom and was unable to meet her gaze.

"I'm not going to stand by and let the Dark Lord take away everything Cedric loved," Cho went on. "That's how much Cedric means to me. I thought you, of all people, would understand."

This time Ernie did look up, and there were tears standing in his eyes. "He was my friend," he said. "He was my brother. There's never going to be anyone like him, in Hufflepuff or anywhere. He was the best of us and he believed in the best in us. He believed in me. So don't you question how much he means to me, because he means a lot, Cho, he does. But he's dead." The tears rolled down his cheeks, and he lifted his glasses to wipe at them. "The Dark Lord took him away and he's dead, so what do I have left to believe in?"

Cho brought her broom alongside his. "Help me, Ernie," she whispered. "I'd rather die too than let the Dark Lord take anything else away from me." She took his hand and squeezed it. "And if you want something to believe in, believe we have to power to keep him from ever hurting us like this again."

* * *

"Then we spoke to your brother," Cho said to Ginny, "and he didn't hesitate even for a moment—he said yes. Unfortunately, his conviction only went so far: he refused to talk to you about it. Or to Hermione." She sighed and shrugged. "I understand why he wouldn't, but we kind of wanted Hermione on our side. We need someone smart enough to come up with as many means to fight as possible. We couldn't approach the professors. If they ever get wind of this, they'll shoot it down before we even get started."

"Strategy we can handle on our own," Ernie continued for her. "As Quidditch captains, we're used to planning. We could tailor our moves to fight against enemies on the ground. But weapons? Logistics?" He held up his palms. "None of us could shoot a curse from a moving broom, and we know it."

"Okay," agreed Ginny. "So we need Hermione. And we need to convince every member of the Quidditch teams to join in."

"Except for Slytherin, of course," Ernie cautioned. "That goes without saying. Even if there are any Slytherins sympathetic to us, too many of them have connections to Death Eaters and we can't afford that sort of risk."

Cho said, "Then all that remains is the outcome of whatever's going on at the other side of this door."

And they waited. It took all of half an hour for the shouting to taper off, and a little bit longer before the door opened and the two came out. Hermione's eyes were red, but she was smiling and holding Ron's hand.

"He finally told me all about it, the git," she said. "And I understand. I'm in. Ron has a condition, though—

"She's going nowhere near a broom!" Ron butted in. "And she's keeping as far away from a battle as possible!"

"I have a condition too!" Hermione said. "I'll do everything I can to support you guys, so long as you promise you won't put yourselves in any more danger than you can avoid!"

Cho and Ginny exchanged smiles. "Sounds fair to me," said Cho.

"Well," Ernie muttered, cheerful as always. "Now comes the hard part. Convincing everyone else."

* * *

They parted a little while later, after saying goodbyes and promising to return at that very room with their respective Quidditch teams. By then, it was late afternoon and sun decided to show up after all: beyond the windows the world outside was turning the color of gold. Fresh snow had fallen on the grounds, but it was somehow not as bitterly cold as Ginny had expected. 

A bit later, as they sat together before the hearthfire in the deserted Gryffindor common room, Ginny asked her brother why he agreed to any of this.

"I don't know," Ron replied. "It was something to do. I couldn't just sit around and mope. The world's gone mad, and I had to do something or I reckoned I'd go mad along with it."

"Same here," Hermione whispered. "Of course, it's partly because you and Ron have joined, Ginny. But it's also because…well, it's something, isn't it?"

She leaned her head on Ron's shoulder, and he held her hand in his own. "They took Harry from us," Hermione went on, "and I just couldn't take that lying down. This is all quite foolish and most likely dangerous, and I'd rather not imagine what would happen if the professors ever found out …but you know what?" She gave a little smile. "For some reason, I'm glad to have it. I feel _relieved_."

Their reasons were the same as hers, Ginny realized now. It was their way of pushing back against the darkness. They had no guarantee that the Dark Army would even show up at their doorstep, and if it did, they had no guarantee they would survive the encounter. But all that was beside the point. The point was to push back. The point was not to let the darkness win without a fight. That took courage. That took—faith.

Ginny lay awake in bed for a long time that night, watching the moonlight creep across the walls of her room.

* * *

Three days later, the three Quidditch teams of Hufflepuff, Gryffindor and Ravenclaw gathered in that same room. Most were surprised to be in the presence of their rivals, and to see each of their Quidditch captains standing together on a hastily cobbled platform before them. They mostly kept to their respective groups, chatting about trivial things, and taking curious glances at the other groups present. Understandably, they were all eager to find out what this was all about. 

"I bet this is one bad time to tell House jokes," Ron muttered.

It was Cho who welcomed them and provided most of the explanations. By the time she got to the heart of the matter, most of the crowd were exchanging incredulous stares. For some uncomfortable moments, Ginny thought they would assume it was all just an elaborate joke. But the look on Cho's face disabused them of that idea.

Beside Ginny, Hermione was fidgeting and tapping her foot. "Where are they?" she muttered. "They were supposed to be here 15 minutes ago."

"It's their habit to be late," Ginny replied. "Probably even their policy."

After Cho finished, someone raised a hand to ask exactly how she thought this could be done. Ernie took over from there.

"We can use what we know as Quidditch players," he said. "We use the skills that come naturally to us. We can adapt them for combat—Bludgers, for example, can be effective for knocking out enemies on the ground."

"But suppose the enemy shoots back?" someone asked. "They can do that, you know."

"Yes, I know," Ernie said tersely. "But that's the beauty of using brooms. The Dark Army, as we know it, seems to be entirely ground-based. Ever seen Death Eaters fighting on brooms? That's where our skills come in. We can swoop in to attack and dart away, and the enemy hopefully won't be able to touch us."

Someone from Ravenclaw, Brenna Carlson, raised her hand. "I like your idea, but exactly how do we fight? I know next to nothing about combat spells."

"You won't have to learn," Hermione spoke up. "As Ernie said, the idea is to use our Quidditch skills, so naturally we want an arsenal that resembles normal Quidditch materials. I won't go into details now, but I will say I've enlisted some…specialists...to help us make them." Her lower lip stiffened. "But they're apparently not coming, so—"

The door flew open just then, and a familiar voice boomed, "Not coming? Perish the thought, Prefect Granger! Neither of us would want to miss out on your little scheme—it's too delicious to turn down."

"We just wanted to come prepared, is all, which is why we took a bit more time than usual. Besides, why waste a grand entrance?"

Everyone turned to the doorway, and a cry of delight rose up among the Gryffindors. Fred and George Weasley stood side by side, each wearing identical Cheshire grins.

Ron snorted. "So that's what you were doing all this time, then? Standing out outside with your ears on the door, waiting for someone to mention you?"

"Don't pout, baby brother, it doesn't suit you," Fred replied as they strode toward the platform.

'About time these clowns showed up,' thought Ginny as the twins waded through to the makeshift stage, hi-fiving their fellow Gryffindors on the way. It had been her idea to call on them, and if she may say so herself, it was a stroke of genius. No one could come up with better gags and gadgets than her brothers, and having recently opened a branch of their joke shop in Hogsmeade meant they could supply their team as much as they could afford.

Once up front, Fred took out a small bottle from his pocket and held it up for all to see. "An example of the services we can offer," he announced, in the voice of a stage magician about to perform an elaborate trick.

"What you are looking at, my friends," George said, "is a small test dose of the most potent Dungbomb concoction ever made. We call it…_Dungbomb X!_ And if you sign up today you'll be among the lucky few who'll actually get to use it on someone. How strong is it, you ask? We've managed to send flies running for cover with a single drop. One whiff of this and you're guaranteed to wake up in the Hospital Wing—next Monday."

"It's still in production," Fred added, "but once we have enough, all you need to do is put it in a Quaffle-like container, and voila! Watch the enemy drop like drunks in Oktoberfest."

"Then keep that thing away from me," said Ron, stepping behind Ernie.

At this, the room broke out in excited talk. Now that it seemed that it could really be done, the possibility became even more tempting. Ginny tried to figure out what was being said, but finally someone spoke up to express their doubts. Oddly enough, it was one of the Gryffindors—Petra Simmons, a Chaser.

"I don't know how we can even entertain thoughts about doing this!" she exclaimed. "We're just kids. How can anyone expect us to fight? Imagine what our professors will think…and what about our parents?"

Silence followed this remark, and the energy in the room seemed to dampen. But Cho spoke again, and in the years to come Ginny would always remember what she said.

"Petra, the Dark Lord is out to torture, enslave and kill every man, woman, and child in Britain. Don't discriminate against yourself because you're still young. I promise, _he _won't discriminate against you."

* * *

"And that was that," said Ginny. "Everyone took an oath to keep the organization secret and to fight against the Dark Army." 

"Wow," said Jamie, "I mean—just, wow. You actually did it. United three Houses. That's amazing, Ginny."

They were sitting together in that peaceful little garden where, months before, she had picked elderberries with Cho. The place had not changed despite the winter. Ginny had taken Nap here for a visit, and the niffler grew so enamored with the warm, spring-sweet smell of the air that it seemed he never wanted to leave. Ginny and Jamie sat together as they watched the niffler sniffling around the trees and scurrying under bushes.

"And that was all?" Jamie prodded her.

"Pretty much. And Jamie, remember—don't go telling Dumbledore about this. You promised you wouldn't."

The homunculus looked somewhat uncomfortable at this. "Well, I won't tell him unless he asks…and you guys are going to keep it a secret anyway, right?"

"Absolutely. Hermione had everyone who signed up promise, on pain of a special curse, not to spill any information about the group. The spell took effect when they signed their names."

"Speaking of which, have you guys come up with a name for yourselves?"

"Um, yeah. No one could come up with anything better, so we went with Ron's idea: the Broom Brigade."

The homunculus raised an eyebrow. "Broom Brigade?"

"What's the matter?"

"It's fine, but I wonder if you could go with something cooler, like, you know… 'Dumbledore's Army.'"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous," Ginny chided him. "Dumbledore's in enough trouble with the Ministry as it is. Do you want to get him arrested again?"

"All right, never mind then," the homunculus replied, thinking it over. "But I still think it sounds cooler."

Nap scurried over to them, and Ginny opened up a small container from her knapsack and put it on the grass. Nap's eyes went wide at the sight of the six poached eggs before him, and immediately started gorging himself.

"How can something so small eat so fast?" muttered the homunculus.

"Moody wasn't kidding," said Ginny. "He's practically inhaling them!" They laughed together, but the niffler simply ignored them.

A while later, as the afternoon stretched closer to twilight, Jamie abruptly confided to her, "You know, I feel kind of useless."

"What do you mean?" asked Ginny, turning to him.

"I'd love to help you guys. I probably can't fly as well as Harry, but I sure would like to try. But Dumbledore told me from the start to stay clear of danger, and I have to do what he says."

"I understand," said Ginny. "I tried telling Cho yesterday that you weren't interested. She said she understood, but she was kind of hopeful I could convince 'Harry' to change his mind."

"I don't blame her," Jamie said. "Harry's probably the best Seeker in all of Hogwarts, and it looks like he's not lifting a finger to help." He stretched out on the grass, looking up at the canopy of leaves above them. "But I do wish I could help, somehow." He sighed. "I envy you, Ginny."

'Funny, that,' Ginny thought, 'I envy Cho. _Again_.'

Didn't she have a good reason to? Losing Cedric hadn't crushed Cho—it simply made her brave. She was going to fight for all that she had left. In contrast, losing Harry made Ginny want to just crumple up and hide in her bed. Wasn't she supposed to be stronger than that?

As she thought it over, she realized there was a way for her to help, though not the same as Cho's. Right now, there were hundreds of people in Hogwarts wallowing in despair. Perhaps there was something she could do to lift their spirits. Even a little, just to make their lot a little more bearable…

As Ginny thought it over, Nap gave a tiny burp, nestled on the warm grass between them and shut his eyes. Jamie smiled and reached a hand to caress his furry head.

"I don't blame you for liking it here so much," he said. "It sure is peaceful, and it's wonderful how the magic keeps the snow away." He gazed at Ginny, smiling. "It reminds me of that song you taught me, '_Greenwaves_.' Remember?"

Ginny nodded, though she was not really paying attention to him as he started humming the first stanza. Singing was another of Jamie's hobbies, and one he did very well. She had never heard Harry sing even the Hogwarts anthem, but if his voice was as good as the homunculus, then he had nothing to be ashamed of. Why, either of them ought to…

'Oh, Merlin. Oh barmy, bloody Merlin, _that's IT!'_

Ginny leaped to her feet, giving both Jamie and Nap quite a start. She was staring straight at the homunculus, eyes round with epiphany. "Uh, Ginny?" he said. "Something wrong?"

"Jamie, you're brilliant! You're a genius!"

"Wha…I am?"

"Yes! Now come on!" She bent and grabbed Nap, who honked in protest. "Sorry, dear," she said to the little niffler, "but we've got to rush." She grabbed her stuff then took Jamie's hand to pull him to his feet.

"Where are we going?" he asked as they ran out of the grove and into the snow. "Ginny? What's up?"

"We've got to find him," she replied over her shoulder. "Maybe he's still in the faculty rooms, but I'm sure he's got some time—"

"Him? Who?"

"Professor Flitwick!"

"Flitwi—but why do have to see him?"

"So he can help us!" Ginny realized she wasn't making sense, so she slowed down her speech as well as her pace. "Professor Flitwick knows all about music. He conducted the band during the Yule ball, and handled the music to welcome us during my First Year. You remember, don't you?"

"Of course, but…why do we need his help?"

"Because we're going to form a _choir_, silly!" she laughed. "We're going to sing for the refugees!"

For a moment she heard nothing but stunned silence behind her. Then: "Us? Sing? As in…IN FRONT OF PEOPLE?"

"You, me, and everyone else who cares to join."

"But-but-but-but…_why_?" His voice came out in a squeak, not at all like that voice he was singing with a while ago. But she was sure he wouldn't refuse. He never refused her anything.

She couldn't tell him just now the totality of why she wanted to do this. She didn't have the patience. It was a small thing, this gesture, small as the wick of a candle, but wasn't it better to light that little wick than to stumble around in the dark? To believe you can do good, despite all odds, didn't that take—faith?

"Because I believe, Jamie," she answered him, laughing as they raced hand-in-hand up the stone steps to the school. "I believe, I believe, I believe."

_To be continued_

_Author's Notes:_

_1. The title comes from the song "Small of Two Pieces" from the Square videogame _Xenogears. _The chorus goes:_

"_Broken mirror, a million shades of light_

_The old echo fades away_

_But just you and I can find the answer and then_

_We can run to the end of the world_

_We can run to the end of the world"_

_Lovely, isn't it?_ _But don't ask me what it means. I haven't a clue._

_2. _"_Greenwaves" is an actual song by Secret Garden. When I first heard it, I immediately thought of Ginny. I guess Jamie did too._

_3. I like how goodness becomes a chain in this story, how Cedric's goodness transfers to Cho, who passes it on to Ginny, and Ginny to Jamie, and on and on. Just like how a candleflame is passed from person to person until everyone has light and the darkness is completely banished. _

_4. In the next chapter, (which may take a month to write since it's so long), we find out about Harry and how he sets himself free._

___Chapter XXIV: Deliverance_


	25. Deliverance

**The Phoenix and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter XXIV: Deliverance **

"Rufus Yewdaff, reporting for duty, sir!"

The Death Eater captain eyed the corn-haired youth before him critically before scrutinizing the introduction papers in his hands. "10 men!" he growled. "What's the matter with you people? I asked for at least 10 men!"

The new recruit shrunk back. "W-well, I was the only one they could spare at the moment, so…"

The captain stamped the letter with his seal with a bit too much force. "Fine, then. Yewdaff, was it? No time for sightseeing—I want you patrolling immediately. Wait for squad leader Johanssen at his tent."

"Yessir!" The youth saluted, then faltered again. "Er, just one thing, sir."

"What?"

The youngster hooked a finger on his collar to loosen it. "I hope you don't mind if I help myself to some rations first, sir. Haven't had a bite since I left London..."

"Didn't they provide you with supplies?"

"Couldn't spare any, sir, what with the fighting going on. Said you'd provide it. Along with my briefing."

"Merlin's toenails, what the hell are they _doing_ down there?" Grunting, the captain pulled his portly body to his feet, then motioned Yewdaff out of the tent. A look of surprise flitted on the new recruit's face.

"Oh, uh, you're going to—"

"I've got every available man out there on patrol right now—who else is going to do it?"

Both men hastily slipped on their hoods and masks to protect themselves against the biting chill of the wind as they stepped out.

The Death Eater encampment was a sorry sight, nothing more than a group of two dozen cloth tents pitched in a small forest clearing. They looked too flimsy to keep out the cold, and a strong gust could probably send them rolling towards the tree line with the occupant cursing and chasing after it. At the center was a ring of sooty stones, above which a thick black cauldron began to fill with snow. Five sentries guarded the camp, all spaced too far from each other, and altogether more interested in keeping warm than keeping watch.

"Sons of sots, that London wing," grumbled the captain as he trudged through the snow. "I don't get paid nearly enough for this load of bollocks."

"Yessir," said Yewdaff.

"They can do whatever they want there, holding their asses to the fireplace while we stand out here up to our thighs in ice—who do they think they are?"

"Indeed, sir."

"And for your information, the reason we're out here's all because of one man."

The newcomer looked taken aback. "Just one?"

"Yes," hissed the captain, eyes narrowing. "Snake Eater."

The recruit blinked behind his mask. Then he blinked again. "_Excuse me_?"

"It's a codename, lummox. Don't you know anything?"

"But what sort of a codename is _Snake Eater?_"

"My sentiments exactly. The guy made it up himself, probably to scare us. He leaves behind an insignia—some sort of wildcat biting down on a snake over a pair of crosswands."

"Okay…so why does Gallowbraid want him?"

"I don't bloody know why that devil wants him! What, you think I have afternoon tea with that monster?"

"And you've caught him—sir?"

"Do you think we'd still be out here if we did?" The captain shook his head in frustration. "Nearly three months he's been eluding us. We've never even seen the bastard's face. Because of him I'll be out here freezing my toes off till spring. He's the wiliest enemy we've ever faced, that Duomancer…"

"A Duo-what-what?"

"_Duomancer_. Uses two wands? Two spells cast at the same time? What sort of a beggarman school did you crawl out from, anyhow?" The captain spat on the snow. "Snake Eater also uses some sort of fancy martial arts gimmick that screws with our heads. S'like some kind of dance—you wouldn't be able to get a bead on him before he's blasted you."

"You don't mean Wand Schools?"

"Well, looks like you do know something after all. Yeah, I reckon that's it. Who knew people still use 'em in this day and age? And he's not against using dirty tricks either. Every week I hear the same reports—men falling through pits, or strung up on trees, or hit by falling logs. Bloody snares all over the forest—non-magical and undetectable. That's why there's a whole team of us after him."

"Still…" The recruit shook his head in disbelief. "All this for one guy…"

The captain fixed him a look that could wither a cactus, and the recruit shrunk back.

"You," grunted the captain, "ought to pray you never meet the fellow. A complete nutjob—a sadist, he is."

"Really? H-how many has he killed, sir?"

"Not a one."

"Huh?"

"He hasn't killed anyone, least not yet. But he leaves them in such a shape they wished they were dead. A sadist I, tell you. He leaves graffiti everywhere. On tree barks, on logs, on the snow—and on the bodies of my men."

The recruit stared at him.

"I mean it," said the captain. "He puts the words 'Dung-Eater' on their foreheads. He covers the Dark Mark on their arms with his own insignia. He leaves it on their chests, or worse, on their faces. And the damned thing doesn't come off for weeks! My men look like they're wearing some sort of Halloween mask. One fellow even got it on his arse while he was strung up on a tree branch."

"That's…that's terrible!"

"Damn straight! Every one of my men, utterly humiliated! For three months! I mean, we're Death Eaters, for God's sake! We deserve some dignity!"

They had reached the supply tent found towards the rear of the camp. It was larger than its neighbors and bulky from the boxes it contained. The lone guard posted in front saluted as the two men entered.

The tent's insides, warmed by the presence of several floating candles, were a welcome change to the snow. The captain removed his mask, sat on a box, and made it plain why he elected to come along. "Make it quick," he said, reaching for some rations. "We haven't all day."

The recruit's speedy hands grabbed some rations and stuffed them into his robes. "By the way, sir," he said as he inspected his acquirements, "how do I know if I'm looking at him?"

"Bwha?" the captain said through a mouthful of dry biscuits.

"How do I know if it's Snake Eater?"

The captain raised a couple of fingers. "Two things. First, he's got this long metal cylinder on him that looks like a trumpet. 'Xcept that it ain't music comin' out of the end but a lot of blasting power, so you'd best duck out of the way when he points it at you. Second, he's a Duomancer, so he's got two wands."

"Oh, right…have you got a description of the wands, sir?"

"One of my men did. One wand's black, about seven inches long, the other one's this silvery glowing thing that doesn't look quite there, and gives you a headache when you look at it."

"Oh, you mean…like this?"

The captain's mouth dropped open when the phantom wand slipped out of the recruit's left palm. Throwing down his ration (and chewing quite a bit faster), the captain reached for the wand at his side—but Danny was way ahead of him. He caught the Death Eater's wand hand as the latter lashed out his arm, danced behind his enemy, then pulled the arm down as he smashed his fist on the back of his opponent's neck. The Death Eater spun to the ground with a crash.

"Hey, what's going on in there?" said the guard outside.

"I need help over here!" Danny cried. "Captain's collapsed!"

Danny caught the guard with a Stunner as he stumbled through the tent flap, and the Death Eater collapsed on a box of rations. Danny finished his opponents off with Memory Charms apiece, smiling all the while. It would be almost as if he had walked in here wearing an Invisibility Cloak

Danny glared down on the unconscious captain. "Snake Eater, my ass," he said. "Just for the record, your men thought of it, not me."

He quickly stuffed two more rations into his robe, then heaved the bodies outside into the snow. Careful that no one spotted him, at least not until it was too late, Danny made a dash for the line of trees. At the top of the sloping forest floor, he dug out the Foe-Hammer from beneath the roots of the nearest bush. He regretted what he had to do now. It was such a waste of good food.

Hefting up the rifle, he took careful aim at the supply tent, and pulled the trigger. A thunderbolt sliced through air—the ground shook as the tent turned into a green fireball.

"So much for that," muttered Danny, slipping his arm into the strap of the Foe-Hammer. Without their supplies, the Death Eaters would have no choice but to go back to the nearest outpost. It would keep them off his back for a perhaps a week, two if he was lucky, and he usually—

_"Crucio!" _

He spun about and drew his wands at the same time, but as he did so something searingly hot punched into his chest. He gasped in pain and staggered backwards. The front of his robes was smoldering.

A few feet away, wand pointed right at him, glared one of the 10 Death Eater recruits he had waylaid a few miles back. Obviously, this one was the unfortunate bloke whose robes he ransacked; the cold must've revived him. He was half-naked, pretty much half-frozen—his aim had been off because his hand was shaking so much. As Danny straightened up, several rations, burned beyond any use, tumbled out from his robes.

Danny gaped at them, then back at the Death Eater.

"YOU KILLED MY SUPPER!"

The Death Eater never got another shot out—in two seconds he was flat on his back, body smoking from seven different hexes. With his wand Daniel angrily inked the caracal, snake, and crossed wands insignia on his face, then, clutching the last of his rations close, made his escape through the forest.

He ran for nearly half an hour, face twisted in a grimace. He had a reason to be mad. He had food, by Merlin—not some half-rotten potatoes or radishes or insects—real food, and most it wasted because he got too careless.

The Death Eater troops showed up several weeks ago, scouring the forests for him. Apparently Gallowbraid hadn't given up on either him or Moody. He had been lucky these past months. He was in his element out here, having lived in the wilderness for years. The Death Eaters were ill-prepared; they hadn't any clue when it came to wilderness survival, and tended to use up their supplies rather than live off the land. So today he had simply hit them where it hurt—in the gut. It was strange that it came down to this—him relying on his own enemies for food and clothing. Well, stranger things have happened in a war.

Danny traveled west for several miles; with the occasional loops and doubling-backs and the erasing of tracks, it took him four hours, all told. By the time he finally reached his temporary home for the last two weeks—an abandoned farmhouse located at the edge of the forest—it was nearly nightfall, and the increasing fall of snow assured him the last of his tracks would remain hidden. And even if the Death Eaters managed to follow him here, well, he had a few more surprises left for them.

He paused at the rotting, broken fence and surveyed the area. The farmstead was rotten and weather-beaten place where nothing had grown for some time but weeds and vines. Now, they were mostly hidden by a thin blanket of snow.

The barn was his hideout. As always, he approached it gingerly, cautious for an ambush. It was a classic tactic and he had to accept it—every time he entered through the barn doors there was a chance it would be his doom. But as he peered through the crack of the entrance, he found no tracks on the dirt floor, and his tripwires were still untouched, and he gave a sigh of relief. These were the times he could use Moody and his magical eye. Yeah, now that he thought of it, he really missed that overbearing old fart. He was hard to get along with, but he was always at your back when it counted.

He wondered what Moody would have said to him, had he come back to Flamel's leveled cottage without Harry.

He had never returned to find out. Instead, he'd scrawled a note on the trunk of the tree, detailing what he had found and what he intended to do next. He may not have been able to bring Harry back, but he would have the beast's head.

And so he had followed its tracks, bandaging his wounds as best he could. It was not a difficult quarry to track—the monster made no effort to conceal its passage. But whenever he caught up with it, the beast would suddenly pull ahead, just a swift shadow in the trees, or a silhouette on top of a distant hill. It did not seem to want to lose him, but it also never approached. It seemed…almost afraid of him.

'_Or perhaps_,' he thought, as he slipped his rations into sack nailed on the wall, '_not of me so much as what I've got around my neck_.' The Crystal Cage still hung there on its silver chain, cold against his chest. Every now and then, it would emit its eerie red light, like a sleeping eye momentarily awakening.

Why hadn't the beast returned to its master yet? Danny soon realized what this meant: it still hadn't fulfilled its mission. Harry Potter must still alive. But if this was true, then _where_ was he?

Watching the Crystal light up and fade, Danny had one crazy guess.

How he managed that, though, Danny had no idea, no more than how to bring Harry out.

Danny sighed as he gazed out the window. It had been no picnic living out here, hunting and being hunted. With heavy snows rolling in, he had to put his search on hold. He'd come to detest these downtimes, sitting around with no one to accompany him, save for his thoughts. He wished he had someone to talk to—Moody or Harry. Or Nap, poor guy, he must be having a terrible time alone in their little shack.

And Ellie…

He shook his head and climbed to the upper loft. No way was he going back to Hogwarts with the shame hanging over his head. He was not going to put Ellie through that again.

Propping the Foe-Hammer against the wall, Danny climbed up to the upper loft of the barn, and flung himself on the blanket and hay that made up his bed. He could feel his exhaustion fully now; sleep was rolling in like a sea mist, leaving all his thoughts fuzzy and half-complete. Before he vanished into it, he clutched the pendant that lay against his chest. It was a strange—he never felt terribly cold when he wore it, and it was comfortable presence for reasons he could not explain.

"If you're really in there, kid," he murmured, closing his eyes, "I sure hope you soon plan on coming out."

* * *

Harry scraped the piece of wood against the rock before holding it up for inspection. It seemed sharp enough, and so far the best of the lot. He raised the stake over his head and drove it into the soil before him to test it; the wood sank with an audible _shuuk!_ He wondered if it was just as easy to drive into human flesh, but the thought made him ill. 

He had spent the last hour sharpening three wooden stakes, each the length of his forearm. The four hours before that he had spent looking for dead branches he could use, and the previous two days had him just scraping the rock he held against another to create a makeshift knife. All this effort, and it may still amount to nothing.

For a long moment, Harry let his hands rest on his lap and looked about. He was sitting alone in a wide, verdant plain, where the dew glinted in the sun like a million little shards of glass. To his left rippled olive-hued hills, and close to the horizon to his right lay the glittering silver coast. If he looked over his shoulder, he would see a forest of aspen trees, and if he looked up he would find clouds tumbling in a high wind like sheep leaping over a pen. Harry had never been to a desert before, but there was a one made of fine golden sand a couple of miles to the west, a miniature Sahara he could cross in half an hour.

He had never been anywhere with such singular, exotic beauty, yet he could not bring himself to enjoy it. In this world, he was a prisoner.

He had been inside the Crystal Cage for more than two months now—this according to the notches he had cut into a piece of bark he kept in his pocket. Strangely, he felt neither hunger nor thirst nor fatigue. He spent a great deal of time wandering from one end of the lands to the other, all day and all night, in search of the way out. He had traversed fields, rivers, meadows, forests and hills without meeting a single living soul. He sat all day in fields without animals—no birds, no rabbits, not even a single ant. Only one stunning landscape after another, joined together like ill-placed pieces of a gigantic puzzle. He was perfectly free to go and do whatever he wished—except leave.

He wasn't sure how he could possibly have ended up here; his memory of events leading up to being trapped here, were fuzzy at best—the beast charging at him, then a brilliant red flash, and finally, being here. The best explanation he could think of was that he had somehow willed himself here in order to escape the beast. But how was that possible? Could it be that he could subconsciously control the Crystal? Or, if the Crystal had its own mind, could it have taken him within itself? But why?

He had no answers to these things. There was one who may have them, and he was intent on taking them from her.

Scraping at the stake once more for good measure, he stood and brushed away the curls of wood from his jeans. One glance at his shadow told him it was nearing noon; it was probably not even real sunlight, because its rays did not in any way hurt the Cimmerian Sorceress. He did not have a well-thought out plan other than to sneak up on Dahlia and force her—with a stake at her back—to tell him everything she knew. In all likelihood, the plan was suicidal. A thousand-year old vampire like her might well be invulnerable. She might simply laugh at the stake in his hand, before inflicting something terribly painful on him with a simple wave of her fingers.

But what other choice did he have? He could not find the way out, and if she knew it, he had to try something.

Tucking the stake into his belt, he turned southwest, heading for the one place he would always find the Sorceress.

* * *

The heart of the Crystal, as Dahlia had called it, was nothing else but the same place Harry found himself when he arrived in the Crystal: a shadowy grove of six trees surrounded by a vast field of flowers. The field reminded him of the meadow beside the Burrow, except that it dwarfed the latter in scale: it held a thousand different kinds of flowers—daffodils, tulips, yellow bells, lilies of the valley, and some species he was sure could not possibly thrive in Britain's climate, each more exotic than the last. They were all in summer bloom, running riot through the colors of the rainbow, and the scent of the field was a dream of heaven. 

The thought of Dahlia being in this place poisoned its beauty, like the thought of a snake hiding among the blossoms.

The flowers winked into different colors as a breeze stirred them, but Harry took no notice. Their only use for him now was to provide cover as he crawled on his elbows to his goal. Sixty paces from him, the Cimmerian Sorceress sat beneath one of the trees in heart, gazing out into the plains before her. She was here every time he returned, and she never seemed surprised to see him. This one time he hoped she would be.

He crept towards her from the far side of the heart, making sure he could see a part of her body to measure her state of alertness. When he was six feet from the ring of trees, he eased himself to his feet and stepped quietly into the grove. Above him, the leaves cut the sunlight into tiny bright shapes and left him mostly in shadow. He made sure to roll from his heels to balls of his feet, and watched the ground for twigs and dry leaves that would give him away. He needn't have worried; the grass here was as soft as a velvet carpet and muffled his every step. Before him, partially concealed by her tree, Dahlia sat very still and relaxed, almost as if she were daydreaming.

Harry began to feel guilty, creeping up on an unarmed woman with a weapon in hand. It was something worthy of Malfoy and his ilk. But what did he have to feel guilty for? Dumbledore himself described her as the grandmother of Dark Wizards, a vampire guilty of murdering countless innocent lives. She was no different from a Death Eater—from Voldemort himself. What mercy did he owe her?

Harry took three steps forward, then realized he could no longer move.

His feet felt like sandbags, and though he tried to keep it in the air was being sucked out his lungs. Gasping, his hand flew to throat, and that was when he noticed the skin of his hand turning a deathly pale. Cold and white, he collapsed first to his knees, then down to his hands. He could not breathe, could not think. It felt as if something was drinking his soul.

Dahlia's voice cut through the silence.

"Can you kill what does not exist?"

Panicked, Harry strained to look up. She was walking towards him, a fluid motion that betrayed no alarm or haste. She did not even spare a glance at the stake in his hand.

"Can you kill an idea," she continued, "or strike the heart of a dream?"

Harry could not respond; not only did he not know what to say to these bizarre questions, he did not think he had enough breath in his lungs to speak. Dahlia let her words hang in the air, then said, "That is what we are, here. As thoughts and as dreams, with no bodies that may hunger or thirst or die. We cannot even go mad, no matter how much we wish it. Death and madness are escapes, and here there are no such escapes." Harry found himself being hoisted off the ground by his collar. The Cimmerian Sorceress held him with one hand, like a cat about to punish its kitten, and carried him to the meadow outside.

Harry instantly found he could breathe again as she set him down among the flowers. He scrambled away as if she were a coiled cobra, ready to spring at his neck.

But unlike Wagnard, there was nothing animalistic about Dahlia. If she was a prisoner here, she did not show it: she kept her back straight and her bearing as regal as a goddess. Her skin was tombstone gray, from the top of her smooth forehead down to her bare feet. Her wine-colored locks, a darker shade than that of her long red robe, tumbled past her shoulders. Her huge, raven-feathered wings, so unlike Wagnard's leathery bat-wings, were like cupped ebony hands. Harry had never seen a fallen angel, but he thought one would look like her, fluid and near weightless, as if the ground was not meant for her feet. And those huge wings, burned black by her descent, or perhaps by the fires of hell.

She stood more than a head taller than him, yet from her face she did not seem to be a day over twenty. It was the eyes that gave her away—they were ancient, unnatural, like those of a living statue. Those eyes could have watched mountains turn to plains and stars burn out of the sky. Beneath her emerald gaze he might well turn into a wisp of smoke.

"Is there something you want, Harry Potter?" she asked in a voice that carried the undercurrent of power, and once again Harry thought of Voldemort.

"I want to get out of here," he said, hoping to be as brave as he sounded.

Dahlia's wings stretched outwards like open palms, offering nothing. "Three months you have spent in these lands," she said. "Three times we have met in this very place. Three times you have asked for the same thing. The answer remains the same: walk in any direction for an hour and you will reach the hinterlands. Once past them, you will reach the Crystal wall. Beyond lies the outside world."

The plain way she spoke made Harry feel foolish. But he said, "How do I know you're telling the truth? How do you even know all this?"

Dahlia's wings folded behind her once more. "In your time here, has my word ever proven false?"

"I've been lied to with the truth before."

"If you cannot trust the witness of your own eyes, then what can you trust?" She turned her bottomless gaze at the stake in his hand. "Will you then seek the truth at the end of a wand, or the point of a weapon?"

Harry flushed. "I wouldn't have to, if you don't keep hiding things from me!" he replied angrily. "If what you say is true, then how come _you're_ still trapped here? Obviously, there's something you're not telling me!"

"To each one a path," she said, "and though two may share the same path, that is not true of us. You seek vengeance, and revenge is a road unending." She turned from him, walking back into the grove. "Go back to the hinterlands, Harry Potter. Your path awaits you."

"Nobody can get past that place!" he cried, pushing himself to his feet. "It's impossible!"

"I did not say your way would be easy—only that it is yours."

"Then why does that place do that to me? Why do I see those things? What's it all supposed to mean?"

Dahlia did not answer him. Harry stalked forward, but halted at the edge of the tree line. Whatever happened to him earlier, he had the feeling the grove had something to do with it.

"How do you know all this?" he shouted at her back.

But Dahlia had settled once more beneath her tree, her eyes on the plains before her, as if she were watching over some invisible flock. It was no use; obviously she would say no more. Swallowing his anger, Harry turned and stalked away.

* * *

He walked for an hour, and for a while ceased to think altogether. Instead, he let his feet lead him in a straight line and watched as one landscape melted into another; a plain of dry grass, bronzed by the sun; a small wood of maple and cedar, floor forever carpeted with crisp leaves; a pond that mirrored the sapphire sky; a pearl-white beach without a single shell on the sand; and a low hill covered in flat multi-colored stones, like coins dropped from heaven. 

At the bottom of that hill, the hinterlands began.

Sometimes the hinterlands were a sparse forest of thin, dead trees with grasping branches; sometimes they were a marsh of black, brackish water; sometimes they were a rocky shore without space for even a single patch of grass; but always the mist was there. It rose from the damp earth like a ghost jealously guarding its domain. Sometimes it was silent, dampening all other sound such that Harry could only make out his own breathing. Other times it was a living thing, filled with echoes of distant voices and phantom footsteps, and though Harry strained his eyes and ears and called and chased the sounds, he always found himself utterly alone.

This time, the hinterlands were a moor of wet, clingy grass and uneven soil. Harry could only see a few feet into the mist before everything turned into blank, ash-gray nothingness. He stood there for many minutes, simply watching, letting the smell of wet earth fill his nostrils, until at last he could wait no longer. He picked his way down the hill and let the nothingness swallow him.

He never had to wait long here before it started. It was, in fact, almost routine. After a few minutes of walking, after all sense of direction had been lost, a great shadow would rise before him, and he would come upon the house. There was no way past this. The house appeared every time he came this far, no matter what direction he took.

The first time he saw it, he did not place it in his memory, though it was eerily familiar. But he knew this place now. This was Godric's Hollow.

Opening the door was the hardest part.

Harry hesitated, staring at the pale blank face of the house—its windows were wide-open eyes, the front door smartly shut like a gagged mouth. When he slunk closer, coming to stand before the door, it happened again: a dull thud resounded from somewhere inside, like something heavy had dropped to the ground.

Harry realized that his throat had gone dry, that his tongue was clinging to the roof of his mouth and he was shaking, shaking from a deep inner chill. He had no choice. He was meant to go in.

He reached out and turned the knob, and the door swung open.

James Potter lay stretched out on the carpet of the dim, narrow hallway. One of his knees was bent, his right arm placed above his head as if he were about to wave to a passerby before being struck down. Close to his curled fingers (Harry imagined those fingers warm and alive, ruffling the hair on his little head) lay his wand. He was dressed in a long black robe, but underneath he wore a plaid shirt and a pair of gray pajama bottoms. He had been quite ready to turn in for the night until the arrival of a final, unexpected guest.

His father's face was frozen in the same expression Harry had witnessed twice before—a mixture of agony and fear; the realization that he was doomed, and so too were his loved ones.

"Oh Dad," Harry whispered, and felt hot tears slide down his cheeks. "Oh Dad, You died thinking you'd failed me and Mum."

The shaking got worse; he was almost certain he'd collapse right there beside his father's corpse, but of course he never did. From upstairs came his mother scream, and again it galvanized him into action. Stepping over the body—he had no choice but to do so—he picked up his father's wand and sprinted to the nearby stairs. He took them three at a time, as fast as he could, up to the second floor.

And though it all he could hear his mother's anguished screaming—"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"

And that ice wind voice, filled with contempt, filled with joyful hatred—"Stand aside, you silly girl…stand aside, now…"

Harry turned hard at the landing, one hand gripping the banister. "Mother!" he shouted. Nearly there, now. Just a few more. If he could only—

"Please, I'll do anything—please, have mercy!"

Laughter, cold and cruel, and Harry's heart turned into a glacier. He had to make it this time. He gained the top step and thrust his hand out. The knob—

There came the noise of a high rushing wind. The door opened to the bloom of an emerald sunrise. When Harry blinked it was gone, printing a bright afterimage on his eyes.

Lily Potter lay on the wooden floor, slumped before the cradle she had been trying to protect. She was on her side, twisted at the waist, both arms reaching towards her baby. But her wide, pale eyes were turned towards him, and he saw the last tears run down her cheeks to scatter on the unyielding floor.

Harry no longer felt his own tears; his face was wet, but it felt like he was weeping fire. His gaze turned to the dark frame towering over his mother's corpse. Lord Voldemort was facing Harry, not his younger self in the crib, but the one at the door. His eyes were filled with mock pity, as if he had just accidentally killed a pet of a friend.

But he was grinning. Oh, was he grinning.

There was a whirlwind in Harry's lungs, and all he need do was open his mouth for it to come out in a torrent. He let it go, raising his wand and letting all the hatred he could muster pack into the word "_Expelliarmus!_" The wand blasted away at his command. He shouted the curse again and again as he advanced, stabbing at Voldemort. He wanted to bury the wand in that bastard's black heart, wanted the curses to burst out of his chest, wanted him to scream his death throes—

But the Dark Lord deflected each curse with ease, as if sweeping away a volley of thrown pebbles. He too raised his wand, and Harry's world vanished into a green sun and the wide moon of a grin.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Harry screamed as he was engulfed in a great rushing wind. He fell backwards, the floor disappearing, the walls disintegrating, the green light blotting out the world—and through it all, he kept screaming. As he kept falling, the green light slowly turned to blue, and the cradling air was filled with the sweet scent of flowers. Then he was lying on long, soft grass, staring up at a pristine sky.

When he sat up, he found himself back in the fields near the heart of the Crystal. The sun shone brightly above him, and he could see for miles.

* * *

For five days, Harry did not go anywhere near the hinterlands. 

In the real world, he thought as he wandered through the summer-tinged aspen forest, thick December snow would be flying through the air. Here it was always warm, and it never rained or snowed, nor did the breeze blow hard enough to pluck the twigs from the trees. Still, Harry didn't care if it was fifty below outside and the wind was howling like a pack of starving dogs. He had no desire to stay in here one minute longer, not after what he had gone through.

But how could he possibly escape? Why did that place torment him so? Why did it keep bringing him back to that terrible night his parents were murdered? Was he being punished? Challenged? Pushed towards some unknown purpose? He wandered some time, pondering these questions, walking through the places he had long mapped in his head.

On the fifth day of his wanderings, his feet led him to the ivory shore far to the east. On the northern edge of the beach was a group of tall, sharp-edged rocks that sloped to the sea. Harry had never ventured near there because it looked impassible, but the need to explore spurred him to approach.

Inspecting one side, he found a narrow space between two rocks that was wide enough for him if he walked through sideways. He did so, and on the other side he found himself in a large, hidden cove of stones with varying sizes, and more of the same pale sand. He blinked at the strong flood of sunlight, then jumped in surprise at the hunched figure near the water's edge.

"H-hello?" he called.

There was no movement and no answer. Harry approached cautiously, and he saw why. What he thought was a person was actually a statue of gray stone—two statues, to be precise. The first was of a young boy, no more than 10 years old, barefoot and clad only in loose trousers. On his back he carried a girl of similar age; she wore a simple peasant dress, and her long unbound hair clung to her neck and shoulders. His hands were hooked around her thighs, and her thin arms were wrapped around his neck. The statues stood on a flat base that probably went deep into the sand.

Wondering at the sight, Harry came closer to inspect them. He had a strange feeling that he had stumbled upon a secret, something at once precious and intimate. Both children looked equally well-made; a lot of time and care had been devoted to their crafting, but what struck Harry most was how lifelike their faces seemed. The boy's eyes were half-closed, and his mouth was wide with laughter as the sea lapped at his toes. The girl's face was particularly striking—Harry could not mistake the tender look in her eyes as she gazed at the boy who carried her, and her wide smile seemed so idyllic and carefree that Harry could not help smiling a little himself.

"Do you like it?" called a voice somewhere to his left.

Harry jumped and turned at once. Dahlia was watching him from the far side of the cove.

In his shock, Harry could not think of a response. Dahlia approached slowly, meditatively, often stopping to pick up and examine a flat stone in her palm before slipping it into a pocket. Harry stayed where he was, undecided between standing his ground and running, and eventually she reached him.

"What are you doing here?" said Harry.

She did not seem to mind his tone. "To you," she said, "I am gathering rocks," and slipped the last stone she found into her pocket. The ocean breeze flowed between them and she turned to face it. The two great wings on her back fanned out like sails, and though they seemed terrible, unnatural things, Harry had to admit: they also looked magnificent.

"You have not turned your feet to the hinterlands for many days now," she said.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "You've been watching me?"

"I share this Crystal with you. Little happens here without my knowledge, Harry, son of James."

Harry felt violated. Had she been watching nearby as he was forced to relive his worst nightmares? "Why do you keep insisting that I go back?" he demanded. "There's nothing there I want to see!"

"Is it not you who insists on leaving?"

"I haven't gotten out yet, despite what you've told me!"

"Yes. I see that."

Harry gritted his teeth at the nonchalance in her voice. "And that doesn't matter one bit to you, does it? Doesn't matter at all that I have to get out, that there are people out there who probably think I'm dead."

"You are correct. It has been a long time since anything of the outside world mattered to me. As for your freedom, it is unimportant how long it takes before you succeed. If you like, you may take as long as you wish."

"You…you…" But he could only gape at her, fighting to say so much that he ended up saying nothing. He had forgotten to be afraid—after all, she'd never made a move against him— but, God, was she infuriating!

"Do you enjoy doing this to me?" he demanded.

Dahlia looked back at him. One of her wings curled downward, resembling a question mark.

"Do you find this funny, driving me mad?" he went on. "I bet you do! You haven't been amused in so long, you must find me a riot! I'm just some little pet for you to toy with in your sick games, aren't I?"

Her wings folded back once more. "I do not intend to mock you," she said. "I simply speak the truth from my perspective, from one who stands outside of time."

Harry shook his head. He had no idea what that perspective entailed and did not care for it. "Why are you telling me how to escape? What do you want from me?"

She did not reply.

"I get it," Harry seethed. "Once I make it out, you'll follow, is that it? You can't get out by yourself, can you? It's too difficult. That's why you want me to do it. You want me to clear the way for you to escape!" His mind burned at this realization—no wonder she wouldn't harm him all this time: he was her pawn!

She watched him for a moment, then gave a slight shrug. "If you were dying from poison," she said, "would you refuse to share care without first demanding the Healer's name, who his parents were, if he were trained or self-taught? Regardless of what I want, the fact remains: you seek your freedom. And from your words, you accept that the way out is what you have been facing all along."

Harry clamped his mouth shut, glaring at her. After a minute, he said, "And what are you going to do while I'm at it?"

"I will wait. Eventually, you will find your way."

They stared at one another for a while.

'Even if you do escape,' Harry thought to himself, 'I'll hunt you down and stop you, just like I will with Voldemort. I won't rest until I do, I swear—"

"Do you fear me, Harry, son of Lily?"

Her word robbed him of his momentum. "I—what?"

"Is it my power that frightens you?" She did not move her hands, did not even change the expression on her face, but the rocks around them wrenched themselves from the sand and began to rise into the air. Harry looked around in amazement as stones, some he could not hope to budge barehanded, became as weightless as bubbles. When he turned back to Dahlia, she too had left the earth and hung suspended before him.

"You fear me," she went on, "because you realize you have not the power to overcome me, should you need to. You fear Voldemort for that same reason. So much fear, rooted on power. Or the lack of it." She folded her hands, fingers down. "Yet the greater the power you hold, the greater its hold on you. As your might grows, so does your fear, for you stand to lose so much against one who is even mightier."

He watched in dread as the stones hung dreaming in the air around her. At any moment, she could send them hurtling towards him like meteors…

"Harry," she went on, "as you are now, you cannot defeat your Lord Voldemort."

He blinked. "W-what?"

"You cannot defeat him," she said, "because you share his fear. And you share his fear because you share his beliefs."

The brazenness of her words came like a blow. "You—that's not true!"

"Is it not? 'If I had the power to vanquish my enemies, I would be at peace. With power I can be happy. With power, I can be victorious. With power, I will be great.'" Her wings stretched to their full length, and the stones did a slow spin about her. "Harry, you and Voldemort are nourished by the same poisoned root. How can you call yourself different, when your desire for power—and your fear of lacking it—mirrors his own?"

"You're lying!" Harry shouted. "You're twisting things around! I don't use magic to make myself better than anyone else! I don't use magic to kill people! I—" But the face of Irian, white with pain and shock as he fell, floated before his mind.

"What do you expect me to do?" he snapped. "Sit back and die? I can't stand idly by and let him…he-he killed my parents!"

"He did more than kill your parents," said Dahlia. "He did more than kill your friends. He has taught you to fear power, taught that you can do nothing and save no one without it. You have learned well—is that not why you are so afraid? Yet how can one defeat an enemy whose beliefs one upholds?"

The stones became still, then sank once more, falling like feathers back to their places on the sand. In a moment, it looked as if they had not moved at all. One small stone did not fall, though. It crossed the air to Dahlia, and she weighed it in her hand before slipping it into her pocket.

"If you seek to be greater than your enemy," said the Sorceress, "seek that which is greater than power."

With a single great beat of her dark wings, Dahlia vaulted into the open sky.

'Mad,' Harry told himself. The woman was utterly mad, what with her answering questions with more questions and her stalwart refusal to make sense. Just like Wagnard, the years must have driven her insane. And what's more, now she's challenging his very motive for fighting Voldemort. Well, he'd had enough—he should never have spoken to her to begin with, and he would never to speak to her again if he could help it.

And if this cove was hers, he had no desire to stay here any longer either. Tearing his gaze from her receding form, his eyes fell upon the statues once more, and his eyes widened in shock.

"It's…no," he murmured, stepping closer. He rubbed his eyes, though he knew they could not lie, leaving him to wonder why he hadn't noticed it before—the eyes, the high cheekbones, the flowing mane…

The little girl, so free and full of life, bore an uncanny resemblance to the Cimmerian Sorceress.

* * *

As Harry spent the next day wandering and holding one mental debate after another, he came to one inescapable conclusion—there was no other way but through the hinterlands. He did not know whether it truly held the way out or was just some cosmic practical joke being played on him, but he had to accept that it was his path simply because it was true. What he saw and heard there—all of it was his. 

Still, he hesitated. There was a riddle at the heart of this trial he hadn't answered: how could he get past this vision of Godric's Hollow?

Sometimes when he wandered near the heart of the Crystal, he would spy Dahlia in the distance. The Sorceress seemed to have picked up working in the field as a hobby—for hours, she would reach into her pocket for a stone and bend down to lay it on the ground. Sometimes she would uproot grass and turn up the soil with a sharp rock. Harry found it strange, seeing her do manual work, but he never deigned approach her.

His mind circled back to her words often enough, though, and sometimes in idle moments, the smiling face of the little girl by the sea often rose in his mind. Were they really the same person?

Dahlia herself was a riddle, and she had posed another riddle to solve his own—typical of her. But maybe, just maybe, it held some kernel of the truth. What could she have meant when she told him to seek something greater than power?

He had already spent days in thought, and he wished, more than ever, that Hermione were here to help him. He was no good with puzzles, and this was the most insidious puzzle he had ever known, like jimmying open a sealed box only to find a smaller box nested inside.

What could possibly be greater than any power?

It was only when Harry gathered enough courage to enter the mists once more when he came up with an answer. He halted there in the muck, breathing out puffs of cloud that were instantly swallowed by the damp curling fog.

"Death," he whispered to himself. "She meant death."

His flesh went cold with the ruthlessness of it all. Of course that was what she meant. Had to be. What other perspective could a vampire have? Death was an end to everything: to all power, to all life. But how does one harness the power of death?

Avada Kedavra.

Harry shuddered, and pushed on through the mist. This was too much. How could he even consider this? He was no Dark Wizard, nor did he have enough power to wield the Killing Curse.

"There must be a different way," he said. "I can't do this. I can't."

Yet when he opened the front door of his parent's house, when he saw his dead father lying like an abandoned rag doll in the hallway, all his thoughts melted away like snow beneath the sun's harsh glare. The Dark Lord had snuffed out his father's life without a thought or a stitch of remorse. The Dark Lord had killed his mother and left him in the hands of vile, uncaring people. The Dark Lord had killed Cedric and Flamel simply because they got in the way. He would kill everyone who ever meant anything to Harry, because he could.

His mother screamed somewhere above him, and Harry dove for James's wand. Up, up the stairs he ran, chasing the burning brightness of his fury like it was the last rays of a dying sun.

"Stand aside, foolish girl!"

Harry doubled his pace, flying over the steps past the landing. Already his hands were reaching for the doorknob at the top of the stairs.

"Not Harry, please not Harry—please, have mercy!"

Again that cruel laughter. Harry thought he would explode. He had killed before, and why not? It was death that stopped Irian. It was death that would stop the Dark Lord. Death was too good for Voldemort, but by God, that's what he was going to get.

He threw the door open to a bright flash of white-green light and a tunnel of wind. Then the dull thud sounded as his mother's body fell to the floor.

"NO!"

Screaming his rage, Harry leaped forward, and the Dark Lord turned to greet him with his cannibal grin. Harry raised his wand—

"Avada Kedavra!"

It wasn't enough; he knew it even as his wand spat out a jet of green light. The Dark Lord merely smiled wider as he took the spell full on the chest.

"Weak," he sneered, and brought up his wand.

Harry tumbled through the tunnel of emerald light once more. He shut his eyes, crying out in anguish. When he opened them, he found himself on his back again, in the wide field of flowers close to the heart of the Crystal, as if this were all some sort of a game where he had to start over instead of really dying.

* * *

As time passed, a curious thing began to happen to Harry. The rage burned inside of him like a flashfire; every failure he met was simply more kindling for it. He began to lose track of time. He lost count of the times he entered and left the hinterlands. He had ceased to think altogether. All he did now was run. 

He would run from heart of the Crystal, through the desert and forests and fields, leaping over rocks and crushing flowers underfoot. Day and night spilled into each other, as did the places he passed. He ran until the hinterlands came into view, and he had plunged heedlessly into the mists. And thereafter, it was always the same—

—He burst through the front door to see his dad lying there in the hallway. His dad, whose final thought was that he was about to die and that his wife and son were going to be next. Harry had no time to mourn him. Upstairs, his mother was screaming.

He grabbed his father's wand and sprinted to the second floor. He could never run fast enough, never in time to save her. When he opened the door there was only a green flare and a dull thud, and there was his beautiful, dead mother, her tears pooling on the hard wooden floor.

Still laughing, the Dark Lord turned to face him. Harry raised his wand, screamed the words of the Killing Curse, but still Voldemort did not fall. Was his will too weak, or was his enemy simply beyond death? He could only watch, impotent, as Voldemort raised his wand. Then came the green vortex, the sensation of falling, and through it all, the Dark Lord's laughter—

—Harry burst through the front door. This time he did not even look at his father; he leapt over the body, grabbed the wand and hurtled up the stairs. His mother was still crying and pleading for her son's life. He burst into the room. The Dark Lord had finished his work, was turning to him.

"Avada Kedavra!" Harry screamed, aiming his wand. "Avada Kedavra! AVADA KEDAVRA!"

But once more, everything was dissolving in a pure, emerald light. Not enough, Harry thought through his agony, not en—

—Harry threw himself past the corridor towards the stairs. He never looked at the corpse, not anymore. The face seemed all blurred now. Sometimes it even looked like someone else. Ron, perhaps, or Cedric. Even the face of his mother upstairs looked different. It could have Hermione, or Cho. It didn't matter. Whoever they were, he was too late or too weak to save them. He couldn't save anyone—

—Harry hurtled up the stairs, but suddenly halted before the landing, his skin crawling with horror. He turned to look back at the corpse in the hallway. He was sure, so sure his father lay there; he had become desensitized to the sight.

But it was not his father at all. Harry himself lay dead in the hallway of his parent's home.

And as he listened, he realized that the voice crying upstairs was not his mother's.

"_Harry, Harry, oh God, no, no, no…"_ Not a plea, but a wail of grief.

Harry screamed and tore up the stairs. The Dark Lord's laughter was crueler than ever, full of merriment and satisfaction. Harry burst through the door as the final light of the Killing Curse subsided.

Instead of his mother, it was Ginny who now lay in the upstairs room. Her hands—the same ones that felt so warm and right in his—now looked small and pale where they lay, like a pair of dead doves. Her face was white against her rust-colored hair, and time seemed to fall silent as a tear from her cold cheek scattered on the wooden floor.

Harry felt utterly hollow—there was an ice wind blowing where his heart should be. He could not win, he realized, and saw in Voldemort's smiling face that he was thinking the same thing. Harry did nothing as the Dark Lord raised his wand. The room again erupted in a green supernova, and as he fell backwards through open space Harry thought, 'If I only were more powerful…if only I was something even greater than death—'

—Harry threw open the door of the upstairs room. A body lay crumpled near the cradle, but this time he took no notice of it. He had eyes only for the Dark Lord.

Voldemort turned to meet him, but now the grin melted from his face. Terror rose in his blood-red eyes at the responding green fire in Harry's own. Harry smiled as he stepped forward. His ebony wings spread out, as if to block all escape. Voldemort shrank back, shouting incoherent words as he pointed his wand. But no magic could penetrate Harry's flesh now. Harry stepped forward, reached out his clawed hands and caught Voldemort in a grip stronger than death. His fingers cracked bone, cut off circulation. The Dark Lord screamed, but Harry closed his hand around his throat to silence him.

What did it matter if he took Voldemort's life with a Killing Curse or with a blow from a magic sword? What difference did it make if he tore the Dark Lord's neck open with his teeth? Killing was killing. Blood was blood.

Harry opened his mouth and felt his fangs lengthening. Somewhere nearby, he could hear someone screaming. Then the world vanished into a storm of dark feathers, the walls and ceiling flew away, and he was falling again down the long, wind-swept tunnel...

* * *

When Harry opened his eyes and sat up, he was in the field of flowers again near the heart of the crystal. For a long time he simply sat there, numb with shock at what he had done. 

'Failed,' he realized, 'Failed again.'

He curled up, hugging his knees to his chest. He had thrown all his hatred and despair into this last attempt, and still it amounted to nothing. Now he felt the pit inside of him swallowing all his feelings. He cared nothing for the beauty surrounding him. Even the air of peace here seemed to mock his emptiness. Dahlia was right, he could not defeat Voldemort. Dahlia—

—was standing beside him, he realized, looking down at his crumpled form. In her hand she held a clump of soil from the shallow hole she had dug near her foot, and Harry saw that the ground behind her was upturned and cleared of grass.

She regarded him sadly for a moment before speaking.

"Death, Harry Potter?" she whispered. "That is your answer to evil?"

Harry looked up at her without comprehending.

"When you were born," Dahlia went on, "your mother stood with one foot in her grave to bring you safely into the world. When you were born, your father took one look at your tiny face and your feeble hands, and swore to love you forever.

"Is this how you honor them, by turning your back on life?"

The shock of her words sparked Harry's defiance. "What do _YOU _care?" he retorted. "What would _YOU_ know about life? You're a—a—"

"A vampire?" she finished for him, and to Harry's amazement, a flicker of pain crossed her face. "And you see yourself as…a hero?"

Harry felt the sharp edge of shame bite deep. He cast his eyes down.

"What else am I supposed to do?" Harry whispered. "Voldemort is stronger than me. I don't know how I'm supposed to defeat him."

Dahlia said nothing.

"I know you don't care about any of this," said Harry. "I know you don't care about anything. But by now even you've got to see why I have to get out of here. Even you must see why I have to fight Voldemort—"

"And if you do kill him," said Dahlia at last, "you take away his life but not his beliefs. A million others shall rise, generation after generation, from the same poisoned root. Who will safeguard your children and your children's children?"

"I DON'T KNOW!" Harry shouted. "I don't know anything anymore! I just want to leave–can't you understand? I JUST WANT TO GET OUT OF THIS CAGE!"

"You were in a cage long before you came here, Harry, son of James. You have been in a cage nearly all your life. When will you choose to set yourself free?" She turned away from him and began to walk back along the grassless path she had made with her bare hands.

'This is crazy,' he thought, watching her receding form. She's supposed to be a Dark Lord like Voldemort. Dumbledore himself had said so. Had he been wrong? Had she been unjustly imprisoned here, as he was? To have her openly sharing his pain and offering help—it was just plain crazy. It was like reversing the spin of the world.

But whom else did he have to rely on?

"How?" The question spilled out of his lips before he could even think about it.

She stopped, her back still to him. Her wings shifted slightly.

Finally, she spoke again. "Harry, you told me once that you were lied to before with the truth. But truth is often never hidden from you. You only turn away from it, because you love the lie more.

"Rely only on what is true, Harry, son of Lily. Rely only on what is real."

She walked on, leaving him to his solitude.

* * *

When Harry stood before Godric's Hollow once more, it had been after three long days of probing and questioning himself. It was night now, and the fog lay was thick and coiling, obscuring the moon and stars. 

He did not know what the truth was, not yet, but realized that before he found it, he should first confront the lie.

'But what's the lie?' he asked himself, gazing at the slack, pallid face of the house he had come to know so well. He did not have to wait long for an answer.

_No peace without revenge. _The great lie of his heart. He had nearly forgotten those words whispered to him by the wind. He had nearly let them swallow him whole.

What, then, was the truth?

Harry turned the knob, and the front door swung open. His father lay in the carpeted hallway, frozen in time and beyond all reach of hope or love. Harry would never know the little details of his life—his habits, the sound of his laugh, the feel of his unshaven cheek, the roughness of his hug. Would his father still love him even if he should stray from what was right? Harry would never know the answer, and he felt his heart crumbling as grief touched him again.

Instead, he knelt beside his father. His fingers touched the lifeless hand, and he bent to kiss the cold forehead.

"I love you, Dad."

Somewhere above, his mother was pleading for his life. His eyes fell on the wand near his father's hand. No, he didn't want to push this hateful boulder up the hill, not anymore. He hadn't the strength for it. Harry left the wand where it lay and took the stairs.

_(Can you kill what does not exist?) _

Harry gained the landing, listening to his mother's plaintive cries. His chest ached at her suffering. But was she really there at all?

_(Can you kill a thought, a dream?) _

Her crying ceased as green light spilled from the crack beneath the door. Harry turned the knob and entered the bedroom. The Dark Lord was towering over her inert form. He turned to greet Harry, still with his pointed smile of mock pity, but Harry slowly approached towards his mother and knelt beside her. It hurt him most that he could not remember the details of her—her warmth, her scent, the feel of her fingers against his cheek, her voice wishing him sweet dreams. What else did he have of Lily Potter, other than her death?

He brushed a curly lock from her forehead and kissed the cold tears from her cheek.

"I love you, Mum."

He was done now, save for one final thing. He stood and faced Voldemort. The dark figure still stood there, watching him, waiting for his next move. The wand twitched in the Dark Lord's pale, skeletal hand, and his gloating grin was as wide as ever.

But was this really Voldemort?

Dahlia bade him to rely only on what was true. And the truth was—Voldemort wasn't here. He never was. It was not his father that lay dead in the hall below, nor his mother in this very room.

'The only thing real here is what I feel,' Harry realized. 'The only real thing here is me. Nothing else exists. These people do not exist. Only I am real, because'…

'Because…'

"This is the past," Harry whispered out loud.

Even as he said those words, something hurt inside of him—like a thorn or a shard of glass had been wrenched from his flesh.

But then he felt a gentle breath of wind, almost a sigh, as if a door was being shut nearby. Harry blinked and found himself standing on a lonely hill. It was night, and he was alone. There was no trace of a house or a path leading anywhere. Only the moor, the fog that blanketed it, and the radiant moon.

Was it over, or wasn't it? Harry fell onto his back on the grass. He had no idea what came next, and he felt too empty and exhausted to care.

Yet he also felt…indescribably light. As if he had been spending all this time at the bottom of a deep pool, and now he was slowly being buoyed up to the surface. He gazed up at the sky and listened to the heavy throbbing of his heart.

But there was a shadow on the moon—a figure of enormous wings, arms outstretched, descending towards him. What he thought was his heartbeat was really the sound of those great wings. Harry thought he was being visited by an angel, or by a god.

But it was Dahlia who was coming down to meet him.

She alighted on her knees beside him, the air from her wings clearing the mists and making the grasses sigh. In the pale moonlight, she seemed transfigured somehow. Her dark wings shone like polished ebony and a silver crown circled her crimson locks. Harry watched her, and realized that though her face could be chiseled from stone, her eyes could still smile.

"Well done," she said.

Harry sat up, still watching her. "But…I…what happened?"

"You saw the past for what it was," she said. "Just the past, not something that dictates your present. In understanding this, you saw you did not need power, and set yourself free." She nodded, as if to herself. "Understanding is greater than power, for it is understanding that brings an end to fear."

He turned and looked about him, but all around there was still only a gray nothingness. "Then…I've won? But I don't see the way out anywhere. I thought…"

"I had thought the same," she said. "In truth, given what you have already seen, I had hoped you would walk free at once. Yet it seems there is more fear and pain in you than you know. Those, too, you must relinquish, before the mists trouble you no more."

Harry's heart sunk inside of him. "So it's not over?" He did not know if he could take anymore.

"Yours is not a wasted effort," she said, standing up. "No step closer to your truest self is ever wasted."

He gazed up at her sharply. There was a question he needed to answer, before anything else. "Tell me the truth," he said. "Don't you want to get out of here too?"

She paused, her emerald eyes never leaving his. "No, Harry."

He saw she was not lying. He was not sure how he could tell; perhaps it was in her unwavering gaze and the open way she answered him. "Why not?" he asked in a quieter tone.

"Here is where I belong," she replied. "I can say no more, as there is no more to say."

"Then at least tell me—why's it all like this? What's it all suppose to mean?"

She offered him her hand. "Come," she said. "This is no place for talking. Let us return to the heart."

Harry hesitated, then surprised himself by letting her help him up. It was true—he was not afraid anymore. There was that, at least. He had a moment's darkness as her wings enfolded him, and when she opened them again, they were standing once more in the moonlit field of flowers.

"Look about you, Harry," she said. "Everything you see here is of Volarius's making. He made this as a prison, yes, one that may hold its prisoners until the unmaking of the world. But he also made it as a mirror, to show that we are within ourselves imprisoned. And the day we leave our self-made cages is the same day we leave the Crystal. The hinterlands hold the key to this freedom." She raised a slim hand, pointing at the distance. "There we may confront all that shackles us—all the fear and pain we seek to hide from. We face them again and again, until we come to see them for what they are. In that, we come to understand ourselves, and in that understanding achieve Singularity."

She paused at his look of incomprehension. "What do you mean?" Harry asked. "What's Singularity?"

Dahlia hesitated before answering. "Singularity Magic is Volarius's creation, that which he …no, it is something far older than him. It is the magic that flows through this world...no, that is not accurate." She paused again. "I have difficulty explaining it to you. It is like putting moonlight or the sea into words…it cannot be done in a single breath or in many. You need to walk into it, as you would the sea, to know it for what it is."

Another question formed in Harry's mind. "Does Singularity allow you to control the Crystal?"

She gently nodded. "In a sense, yes."

"Then it was you who brought me here, right?" Realization flooded into him, strong as sunlight. "It was you I felt when I first touched it. It was you in control all along."

Again she nodded.

"Can't you free me?"

"No, Harry. Even if I wished to, I cannot."

"But you said…"

"If this Cage is of Singularity, then you cannot leave it unless you, too, are of Singularity. That, too, is the will of Volarius."

Harry shook his head. "I don't understand, but all right. It's not the first time. What do I have to do to be…to have Singularity?"

"You are doing it. Every step we take towards our freedom is a step in that direction."

His eyes widened. "Wait…so, you knew," he said. "You knew all along that I'd have to go through this—why didn't you tell me any of this before?"

She shrugged. "If did, you would have known much, but does knowing change anything? Or is it learning that brings change?"

"Have I learned, then?" he countered.

She looked him in the eye. "Think back," she said. "How did it feel to let go of the past?"

Harry paused, remembering. "Like…like…" He realized he, too, lacked the words to describe that feeling of inner weightlessness. His eyes wandered up to the sky. Above them, a cloud was sailing across the face of the moon. A fresh breeze rose, filled with pale petals and the scent of the divine.

"I felt…like I had betrayed someone," he said. "I felt like I was letting my parents go. I felt like I had decided to stop doing something I'm supposed to be doing for the rest of my life, and it hurt." He stopped, because his voice was shaking. He covered his face with his hands to hide his tears. "It felt like giving up. It felt like abandoning myself. It felt like dying. And yet…"

He looked up at her with wide eyes. "And yet I've never felt so good," he murmured. "I don't understand why that should be. I feel…like light. Like the wind."

"Yes," Dahlia whispered. She reached out a hand to steady him; he did not realize how badly he was shaking. "Yes," she went on, "that was how I felt too."

They shared a long silence as she gave him time to recover. It felt so strange, though Harry, this sudden reversal. He had gone on this quest hoping to gain control of the Crystal Cage. He did not expect to have to _experience_ it.

"I'll need to go back to the mists, won't I?" he asked, wiping his eyes. "To face more of myself?"

"Yes."

"Then, it would be easier if—look, can you help me understand the Crystal, even just a little? Will you help me learn?"

She let her hand fall from him, eyes widening a little. "You wish me…to teach you?"

"Yes, I guess that's what I'm saying." He hesitated. "Would you?"

She bowed her head, and at first, Harry thought she was going to refuse. Why wouldn't she, he thought, considering how much he had mistrusted her? But she raised her head after a minute and spoke. "It takes two to share. I will agree to be your teacher, if you will agree to be mine."

That took Harry aback. What could a thousand-year old vampire witch possibly want to learn from him? "W-well, what do you want me to teach you?"

"Whatever it is you know. Whatever you can offer. Do you agree?"

"All right," said Harry. It was done, then. He had a new course. Let it take him where it may, but at least he was no longer going to live in darkness.

Dahlia drew in a deep breath, and her wings rose higher on her back. "Then I will teach you all that my years can give. I will share the ways of the Crystal and the ways of magic. I will tell you of Singularity, and thereafter, no power in wizardkind may harm you again."

"T-thank you," said Harry. It seemed terribly inadequate, but he really had no idea what else to say to her. "Will it take long?"

"As long as it takes to return your heart, and as difficult." She reached out a hand and laid it on his shoulder. "But for now, at least, we shall walk it together."

_To be continued _

_Author's Notes: _

_A few words about the next chapter: Dungbomb X. Death Eaters attack. First engagement. Jamie makes a decision. _

_Chapter XXV: Flight of the Broom Brigade _

* * *


	26. Flight of the Broom Brigade

**The ** **Phoenix**** and the Serpent**

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter XXV: Flight of the Broom Brigade**

_If life is a river, and your heart is a boat_

_And just like a water baby, you're born to float_

_And if life is a wild wind that blows way on high,_

_And your heart is amelia, dying to fly_

_Heaven knows no frontiers_

_And I've seen heaven in your eyes…_

"Hold it, hold it! It's still not right!" Ginny waved a hand for silence and frowned at the music sheet on the podium before her. Was this their 12th trial already? She had lost count, and already the afternoon sun was dwindling away outside the tall windows of their classroom.

"I was flat again, wasn't I?" groaned Hannah Abbot, and Ginny merely smiled at their resident soprano. Though she had no formal training, she had the voice of a nightingale—a fact that would have gone unappreciated had Ginny not dragged her out to audition.

"You were great, as usual," Ginny replied. "The bass was out of synch, is all." She glared at the boys, who smiled sheepishly back at her.

"Sorry," was all Jamie could say, as usual.

"We're trying to keep up," Colin said. "But it really would help if someone stood in front and waved their hands around like Maestro Flitwick."

His brother Dennis giggled as Colin began exaggerating Flitwick's conducting. Ginny could never quite believe that these two imps had voices like angels, but apparently they had been singing for years in their hometown choir, and she could hardly be picky at this point, could she?

"Let Seamus lead," said Donegal McLean, nudging the boy beside him. "He picked the song, after all."

"Oh, hey—I don't know anything 'bout that!" cried Seamus.

"It's no big deal if you follow the beat," said Padma Patil. The Ravenclaw did not sing quite as well as the others, but had signed up out of pure interest and could read notes. "Besides, you _do _know the song best."

Ginny felt a headache coming on as an argument ensued. "No Frontiers" had been such a simple tune and seemed easy enough to learn, but after their recent success it seemed Professor Flitwick wanted to bump things up a notch; the voicing he'd composed required them to sing solo stanzas in turn while the rest hummed a convoluted background tune. It was hard enough to remember how the humming went; coming back to it once you'd done your lines made it a nightmare.

Ginny wished once more that the professor had more time to spare for practice, but he too had other responsibilities around the castle. It fell to her, the choir leader, to make sure they were up to performance level. A song like "No Frontiers" deserved nothing less.

"All right, all right!" She rapped the podium. "I've got to get going, so we'll continue this tomorrow. Before our next session I want everyone with their parts memorized, okay? Remember, we've only got…"

The others were already beating a hasty retreat to enjoy the rest of their free time, and in a twinkling only Jamie was in the room with her.

"…three days to get this right," Ginny finished.

Jamie handed her jug of water, which she gratefully drained. "You look tired," he said as he took back the jug.

"You think?" Ginny grumbled, picking up her knapsack and slinging it over her shoulder. "Well, my day isn't over yet. I've still got Quidditch practice."

Jamie inclined his head in understanding. They got their bags and together hurried down the hall.

"Are you sure you'll be okay?" he asked. "I don't want you getting sick, you know. You've barely got enough time to rest as it is."

He was right, of course; Ginny was already feeling the strain of her extended activities. Their choir sang in the Great Hall every Wednesday, which meant practice everyday at four in the afternoon except Sundays. Then three times a week she had secret practice sessions with the Broom Brigade, occurring at either the crack of dawn or just before dusk. Add to that her volunteer work for the refugees, looking after Nap, and whatever studies they could still afford to do, and at the end of each day Ginny would flop bonelessly to bed, feeling much like a used-up toothpaste tube.

But oh, how glorious the rewards! If she closed her eyes she could still see the refugees, at first with no idea of what to make of the terrified band of children that faced them on the stage of the Great Hall, but then pausing to listen as the first strains of music filled the air.

Now, every Wednesday night after dinner, a crowd would flock to the stage, children cross-legged in the front row. Every song, even their customary Hogwarts school song opening, was met with a grand applause, but what caught Ginny's heart even more was that the audience participated, singing along with what songs they knew, and how they listened raptly as Hannah stepped forward and did a grand aria that resonated throughout the entire Hall. And once an elderly gent stood up and accompanied their rendition of "Try to Remember" with his violin, with a sound so pure it brought tears to Ginny's eyes. She'd been right all along—all these people needed was a spark to rekindle their joy. If war had an opposite, this had to be it.

Smiling, Ginny began to hum her part of "No Frontiers."

"You seem awfully happy," Jamie remarked.

"Why shouldn't I be?" she replied. "We've got two groups where three united Houses are doing great things—helping the refugees and protecting Hogwarts. And I'm a big part of both of them. It's just amazing! I've never felt so…so…" She cast about for a word.

"Significant?" offered Jamie.

"More than I've ever felt in my life!" Ginny laughed. "Now you'll say I'm getting a little too big for my boots."

But Jamie simply beamed back at her, and said no such thing.

* * *

The pitch at dusk had the activity of a fairground. Ginny had no idea how Cho managed to keep Madame Hootch away during these sessions, but was glad she did. The sight of three Houses practicing in unison was one that would certainly raise eyebrows.

These days it was the Broom Brigade that occupied Ginny's mind the most. The secret meetings, the training sessions where each House talked strategy, the hours they spent honing their playing skills for combat—it all had a thrill of its own. Ginny did not know if any of it would turn out to be useful in the long run, but she looked forward to each meeting. Here, too, three Houses were united. There was hardly anything more rewarding than that.

Now in uniform, Ginny stood and watched a moment as the members of the Brigade wheeled high in the winter air. A trio in formation performed standard Quidditch maneuvers: turns, loops, flips, barrel rolls, corkscrews, drop-turns, firewalks, all in perfect tandem. A second team was busy with target practice—in arrowhead formation they would dive down to within twenty feet of a five-foot wide target circle on the ground and hurl Quaffles at it. The rest were busy playing a quick game, an activity Ernie would surely frown on as a time-waster, had he been around.

Come to think of it, she thought, scanning the area, where was Ernie? And Cho and Ron, for that matter?

Jamie nudged her, pointing in the distance. Cho was across the pitch, waving for them to come over. "I'd better go check on Nap," he said.

His abruptness surprised Ginny, and then she realized what it meant.

"Is Cho still asking you to join the Brigade?"

"Every time we meet." Jamie lowered his head. Being unable to accommodate a request always saddened him. "Anyway, see you later."

"Later." Ginny waved as he left, and thought, 'what a real bind we're in.' With Ron, Hermione and herself part of the Brigade, it did seem quite odd that Harry would balk on joining up. The real Harry would've put his personal issues aside, but Professor Dumbledore told the homunculus to avoid trouble and attention, and Jamie never, to her knowledge, disobeyed Dumbledore's will on anything.

But there was time enough to untangle that knot later. Ginny hurried across the snow-covered pitch, stopping a moment to swat a stray Quaffle away with her broomstick. She noticed there were Brigade members on the stands too, busy exchanging tips on maneuvers they would've once fought tooth and nail to keep secret. Nearby, another group was busy sewing what appeared to be a banner for the united teams.

Cho gave her a relieved smile as Ginny approached. "Thank goodness you're here. Maybe you can talk some sense into them."

"Talk sense into whom?" Ginny asked as the elder girl led her to the back of the stands. Ron and Hermione stood nearby, looking grumpy, but for once they were not the center of the storm.

"I'm telling you," Ernie McMillan shouted, "I'm having none of it! This is the stupidest idea you've had yet, and that's saying something!"

"Now, now," George said, "it's a little much to expect you to distinguish stupidity from genius, McMillan."

"Frankly, we don't think you could recognize genius if you walked into it nose-first," Fred added.

"What's going on here?" Ginny asked, stepping forward.

"Ah, here's our little sister!" said Fred, turning to her. "You're just in time, Ginnykins, to witness our product in action!" He hefted up what appeared to be a translucent Quaffle filled with a swirling, green-brown gas. "The first ever live trial of Dungbomb X—THE weapon of mass distraction that will win us the war!"

"These silly sods are going to lob that thing at one your own classmates!" Ernie jabbed a finger at the distance, where a small boy wearing a Gryffindor tie stood patiently waiting.

"What the…?" Ginny squinted at the figure before whirling to the twins. "Is that _Dennis Creevy_?"

"Oh yeah," explained George. "We asked him to take part in our experiment."

"He volunteered," clarified Fred. "Can't wait to get started." He didn't specify whether he meant Dennis or himself.

Ernie looked scandalized. "Does he even know what you plan on doing to him? Suppose he suffocates? Suppose he gets a heart attack? And suppose you stop doing that before you kill us all!" He glared at George, who was spinning the Dungbomb on his index finger.

"Seriously, McMillan," said George. "Seriously. Doesn't it hurt to have that tent peg up your arse?"

"Besides," Fred added, brandishing a rolled-up piece of paper, "he's signed a waiver."

As one they all turned to look at Dennis, who was waving at them from afar. "I'm reeeaaaady!" he called.

Ernie looked like he was on the verge of exploding. Cho gave Ginny a beseeching look.

"Okay, all right, time out!" exclaimed Ginny. "Fred, George, you've tested your Dungbomb before, right?"

The twins exchanged glances. "Well, we dropped it on a bear once," answered Fred. "Took an hour before it finally woke up."

"But never on a person," George added hastily. "We've got no effective measure on—"

Ginny held up a hand. She knew immediately that the whole point of this exercise was to show the invention off, not test it. "I've been around you two long enough to know how good you are at wrecking havoc," she said, "so if you've tested it, I'm going to take your word that your product works exactly as you say it does."

"But Ginny," George protested, "you can't just send out a product without testing it on a live vict—err, subject! It's unheard of!"

"Besides, he's volunteered!" added Fred.

Ginny's eyes narrowed as she drew her wand. The twins immediately scampered out of range of her Bat-Bogey Hex. "If you think for one second I'm going to let you take away one of my choir members—"

"All right, all right!" exclaimed Fred. "I'll send him off!"

"You just did the advancement of warfare a grave disservice, Ginny," George said darkly.

A palpable sigh of relief washed over the rest of the group as the twins left to talk with Dennis. "Thank God that's over," said Ernie. "Let's move on to something sensible. Please."

Cho turned to Hermione. "You've got something for us?"

"Does she ever!" cried Ron, grinning. "Show 'em, Hermione."

Hermione reached into her pocket and pulled out what seemed to be a gray-colored Snitch. "I've been working on this for hours already," she said, as it lifted up from her palm to hover in the air. "I call it the Snare. I basically applied the enchantment of a regular Snitch on a copy I made out of coiled ropes, and added to a separate charm to…well, I suppose a demonstration would best explain it."

She drew her wand and pointed it at Fred and George, who were on their way back. "RAVELO!"

The Snare hurled itself at the twins. Surprised, the two boys tried to dodge, but the Snare exploded into a tangle of coils that quickly lashed around their bodies. In two seconds they were flat on the ground, bound head to toe in tight gray cords.

Everyone burst into applause. "Hermione, that's amazing!" cried Cho. "It's just what we need!"

"Beauty and brains, rolled up in one," said Ron, smiling and putting his arms around Hermione. "I'm the luckiest bloke alive."

"Oh, please, Ron," she muttered, but blushed all the same.

"Hey!" Fred cried angrily. "How come SHE got to test her invention?"

It was quickly decided that the Snares were to be mass-produced, and Hermione promised a dozen by the end of the week. After that, the day was concluded with a final friendly game of Quidditch. Streaking through the chilly air on her broom as they scrimmaged, Ginny reflected on how wonderful it was to be surrounded by friends, to be able to enjoy this singular thrill of flying. For a moment she could forget that a war was waging beyond their walls.

But a few days later, just a week before Christmas, war came knocking on their door.

* * *

The news on Tuesday morning came like a black wind through the halls of Hogwarts. The Professors were the first to know, but their hurried, clipped attempts to tighten security around the castle, including posting two ogres at the main entrance, gave them away. The rumors began. Fears flew thick and fast as the refugees veered from one cluster to another, like bees trapped in their own hive.

It took a bit of wheedling on Ginny´s part before she could get the full story out of Professor Flitwick, and his response was at once terse and strained: "We've received word that the Death Eaters have invaded a town west of Hogsmeade—Willow Hill."

In no time at all the news had spread throughout the entire school. But while the residents gave themselves to panic, the foremost members of the Broom Brigade gathered in their once more in the abandoned classroom where they first met.

"Everyone's heard by now, I guess," Cho began, "but I want to be sure we're all abreast with the news. Let's share what we know first."

Ernie raised a hand. "Willow Hill is just ten miles or so west of Hogsmeade," he reported. "From what I heard, Death Eaters attacked the town midnight last night. No one knows how many. Some say a hundred, others say two. Every time I ask I get double the number."

"I don't understand," said Ginny. "Why would they attack a town and not Hogwarts?"

"They will," Ron said, frowning. "They know they can't take Hogwarts in one go, it's too difficult. So they're taking a place like Willow Hill first to turn it into a staging ground."

"Thus allowing a supply line for sustained attacks," Cho finished for him. "Yes, it makes perfect sense."

"I got an owl from Fred and George in Hogsmeade," Ron went on. "The Order of the Phoenix got there just over an hour ago. A battle's going on right now."

Nobody spoke for an uncomfortable moment.

"Well, they're not at Hogwarts doorstep yet," offered Hermione. "Maybe we shouldn't risk it. I mean, suppose the Order can manage on its own? Do we honestly have to take the chance of meeting the Dark Army head-on?"

Ginny saw that Cho and Ernie were looking Hermione with blank expressions, and even Ron was avoiding her eyes. They all knew the cardinal rule of defense in Quidditch: don't let the enemy get near your goal.

Cho said, "Let's wait two hours before making a choice. Maybe we won't need to, if the Order wins."

As it turned out, this was wishful thinking. That afternoon, Ron called a second meeting together after receiving another owl.

"My brothers have someone keeping watch just outside of Willow Hill," he reported. "It looks like the Death Eaters have the town all sewn up The Order's taken huge losses. They've surrounded the place, but can't break through." He paused, then said with a hint of reproach. "They're asking what's taking us so long."

"What about Dumbledore?" asked Hermione. "Isn't he doing something?"

"Dumbledore won't set foot out of Hogwarts," said Ernie. "That might be the enemy's plan all along, tricking him into leaving the school unguarded."

"Then we'd better make a decision right away," said Ron, and as one they turned to Cho. Ginny had a moment's irritation as she realized they were foisting the entire decision on her—weren't the three of them supposed to act as a team?

Cho sighed and said, "We have no alternative, do we?"

No one dared answer her question.

"Then we fly," she finally said. "Tell everyone: West wing parapet, one hour."

A huge grin crossed Ron's face. "C'mon, Hermione!" he whooped, taking her arm, "we're off to pick a fight!"

"Oh, _honestly_, Ron!" But Hermione did not seem capable of saying anything more. She chewed her lip as she followed Ron out the door.

Smiling grimly, Ernie said, "The Hufflepuffs are ready to take to the skies. We'll see you in one hour." And to Ginny's surprise and amusement, he gave a stiff salute before running out after Ron.

Ginny turned to Cho, who alone remained where she stood. The Ravenclaw's gaze was focused someplace on the opposite wall, and her face was white porcelain.

"Are you all right?" Ginny asked.

"Yes…No…I don't know." Cho gave a nervous laugh. "I'm only realizing it right now—I've just sent us all to war."

This startled Ginny. While quiet, Cho had never shown anything but complete resolve, before now. "Cho," she said, "this is what we trained for. It's why the Brigade exists. You knew this would happen sooner or later."

"Yes, Ginny, I know," Cho replied, "but am I the only one here who feels this is too soon? How ready are we? Is three weeks' training enough?"

At that moment, she looked so young to Ginny, a little girl lost in some terrible forest. _Just like how I felt_, she thought, _the night Harry left and I realized we were at war_. Ginny felt afraid for her, then for herself. She took Cho's arm as a shipwrecked survivor would reach for driftwood.

"I don't know if it's enough," Ginny admitted. "I don't know if we're ready and I don't know if we'll win. But I do know that I really, really look up to you, Cho. I'll support you no matter what. And if you tell me this is the right thing to do, then I'm going with you."

At that, Cho's face broke into a smile. She gripped Ginny's hand in her own. The lost look was gone now; her eyes were as sure as steel.

"Yes, Ginny," she whispered, "we're doing the right thing."

* * *

After donning her Quidditch robes, Ginny took a few minutes to visit Nap. Walking around the space of Hagrid's tiny tool shed, she cradled the little niffler close to her and spoke in hushed, soothing tones. Considering how dangerous things would be, it seemed the right thing to say a proper goodbye.

"Don't worry about me, okay?" she said, stroking Nap's head. "I won't be gone long. And when I come back, we'll celebrate with a big batch of poached eggs." Nap licked her cheek as she spoke and whined when she finally put him down.

"I don't really want to leave," she confided, "but I'm a Gryffindor, and a Weasley. This is just something I have to do."

She stepped out of the shed and faced Jamie, who was waiting for her with her broom in his hands. "Keep him company for me," she told him.

"I will," he said, and handed her her broom. "Do your best out there."

She inclined her head. "You don't seem worried."

"I am, a little bit," he admitted, lowering his gaze. "But I've seen you fly, Ginny. You're the best Chaser there is in Hogwarts—Katie herself told you so. I think you'll be able to handle yourself just fine. I know you'll be okay."

Ginny gave him a small smile. The homunculus knew nothing about war. To him it would be just a game like Quidditch, where skill meant success, and if you lose, you simply try again. She did not want to have to disabuse him, but at the same time, his confidence in her made her happy.

"Hey, listen," said Ginny, "I just wanted to say thank you."

He looked up. "Hmm? What for?"

"For going along with me on all this, you dummy. For helping out in the choir and keeping the Brigade secret. I seriously doubt I could've gotten very far if you weren't behind me the whole time."

Jamie colored at her words. "W-well," he said, brushing back his hair from his forehead, "I did it primarily because you asked me to. And I did have a lot of fun…but Ginny, really, you're the one who wanted to do all this. I didn't encourage you or anything. It was you all along."

"Jamie. I'm trying to appreciate you, okay? Maybe you should, I don't know, just accept it?"

"Oh. Sorry."

"Truth is, I wouldn't have done so well or gone as far as I have if I had to do it alone. And you were with me, through it all. You didn't have to say anything. You just showed up, and that was enough." She smiled at him. "It means a lot to me. Thank you."

She hugged him briefly, and caught his look of surprise as she disengaged and leaped onto her broom. In a heartbeat she had vaulted into the sky.

Looking down, she saw Jamie's face as just a pale oval in the snowy dirt road, and Nap a tiny black dot at the shed's doorway. "Take care!" she called down to them. "I'll be back before you know it!" Then she turned the broom and sped towards the West wing.

A chilly wind was picking up, blowing frost across her nose as she rose to the West parapet. Ginny saw Cho standing near the battlements and she alighted beside her friend. "Guess we're early," Ginny remarked. "You're the only one here?"

"Um…" Cho inclined her head to the left. Ginny turned and saw Ron and Hermione some distance away, caught in an embrace and their lips locked together.

"Oh," said Ginny, turning away quickly.

"They got here before I did," Cho whispered, "so I decided not to bother them."

All of a sudden, Ginny felt her heart grow heavy. Some part of her envied what Ron and Hermione had, and at the same time, she felt afraid for them. They had so much more to lose.

She shook her head. '_NO_,' she told herself. '_No one's going to lose anyone. We're all coming back in one piece—there's no other acceptable outcome.'_

She stood silently with Cho as they looked in the distance, each caught up in private thoughts. A while later, Cho said, "I don't like the way that wind's blowing," and frowned at the dark clouds clustered at the western horizon. "I was hoping the weather would be good to us, today of all days."

"I guess we'll have to take our luck as it comes," Ginny replied. She turned her head as heavy footsteps caught her attention. Ron appeared at her side, holding the Firebolt in his hands. He seemed far more sober now; the reality of war must've finally caught up with him.

"Give me your broom," he said.

'_Not this again!' _Ginny thought. "Ron, for the last time, I'm GOING! You can't keep treating me like—"

She shut up when she saw him offering her the Firebolt. Ginny gaped at him. "Wha—Ron—NO!"

"What do you mean, no?"

She grabbed his arm and drew him away from Cho. "Ron, you can't give this to me, Harry said—!"

His gaze was steady on her. "He would've given it to you."

"But—"

"No buts, Ginny! I'm not arguing with you on this!" Ron pried Ginny's Comet from her and thrust the Firebolt into her arms. "As one of the frontline bombers you'll be in more danger than I am. Harry and I would've both agreed on that. Take the Firebolt."

"Ron…" She stared unbelieving down at the Firebolt in her hands. She had never dreamed she would ever get to use it, contenting herself with watching Harry and her brothers take turns with it. And now, here it was. She felt a sudden surge of love for Harry and Ron, so much that her chest hurt and she could not speak.

But the tower doors were thrown open as Ernie marched in with the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, and Ron turned away.

Eyes red and puffy, Hermione stepped forward and put her arms around Ginny. "Maybe you don't have to do this," she said. "Maybe there's another way."

"Maybe," agreed Ginny. "There're a lot of maybes. Maybe the Order will win. Maybe the Dark Army'll just give up and go home. And maybe the stars are made of kettle corn, and we'll see the end of world hunger by the next meteor shower."

Hermione sniffed. "You're worse than Ronald, I swear." And she hugged her friend all the tighter. "Please, please take care of yourselves out there. Promise me, no unnecessary risks. _Please_."

"I promise, Hermione. I'm coming back." Ginny smiled. "Why shouldn't I? I've got so much here to live for."

Hermione disengaged and embraced Cho, wishing her all the best. Then she hugged Ron again. She would've also hugged Ernie too, had the Hufflepuff not stepped back in alarm and busied himself with tightening his bootlaces.

Cho lifted her head to survey the group before her. The entire Quidditch team of the three Houses milled before her, mist rising from their mouths as they talked in excited tones, shaking hands and wishing each other luck. She nodded to Ernie, who blew sharply into his whistle to call the group into formation.

The Chasers formed a box formation of three ranks, each of which was a denoted as a wing. The Beaters took up the left and right flank. The Keepers stayed at the back, carrying their entire supply of Dungbombs in a large net strung between their brooms. The Seekers, whose job was to circle the group and warn of potential threats, stood outside the formation.

"Listen up, everyone!" shouted Ernie. "Today is a day we'll remember forever. Today, the Broom Brigade goes to its first battle. With the Order of the Phoenix, we're going to rid the town of Willow Hill of the menace of the Dark Army. But more than that, today we get the chance to pay the school back for everything she's done for us. Now we earn the right to call ourselves sons and daughters of Hogwarts!" He picked the standard at his feet and unfurled it, and the radiant banner of the Brigade, the faces of the lion, raven and badger decked by in gold, blue and yellow, flew in a rising wind.

Ernie nodded to Cho, who drew in a deep breath. "So," she said. "We're finally ready to fly."

"Not without us, you aren't!" boomed a voice from above.

All heads turned to see the Weasley twins hovering several feet above them, their crimson Quidditch robes billowing as they waved their Beater Bats at their friends below.

"What did I tell you about being on time!" shouted Ernie.

"What did I tell you about acting like my mother?" Fred shot back.

"Come on, you lot, what are you waiting for?" George called. "You can't win a war by just standing around! The fight's over that way! Follow us!"

They sped towards the dark clouds in the west, and with a shout of glee, the Broom Brigade gave themselves to the sky.

* * *

"Well?" demanded Sirius.

"Well, what?" Remus replied. He lowered his spyglass and favored his friend an irritated glance. "Nothing's changed over the past 15 minutes. The town is still crawling with Death Eaters, the main entrance is still heavily fortified, and if we so much as take a step into their range they'll blow our heads off."

"I was hoping for something along the lines of advice on how to win this thing," Sirius retorted, "seeing that time is not on our side."

Remus sighed and pulled his cloak tighter to fend off the cold. It was not an easy request. Though the Death Eaters were outnumbered, Willow Hill was to their advantage. Not only did they have the higher ground, the entire town was surrounded on all sides by a wide meadow, providing the Order with no means of cover. Three charges from three different sides yielded the same result—with the snow-covered ground hampering their speed, no one made it to twenty yards from the town before getting cut down by enemy fire. They had retreated each time, and were reduced to recovering their casualties with Accio Charms from the forest edge. And to top it all off, a storm wind was brewing.

"Voldemort's playing this one beautifully," Remus muttered to himself. "He knows he can't fight a protracted war, so he's going for our jugular—Hogwarts. If he takes the school, he'll plunder its secrets and use the children as leverage against us. Even if he doesn't succeed now, by putting pressure here he's forcing us to pull our forces from the front lines."

"Thank you for the enlightening lecture," grumbled Sirius, ruffling the snow from his cloak. "Damn it, Remus, we're supposed to be on a search-and-rescue mission! Couldn't Lyle get someone else?"

"You know the answer as well as I do."

It had been almost a week since Lyle had pulled their platoon out of the search for Harry and Daniel Oaks to take care of this problem. It was the closest the Death Eaters had ever come to Hogwarts, a proximity that set off warning bells throughout the Order's rank and file. It was absolutely vital that they free Willow Hill of the Dark Army. They had no other option.

These past few days, in truth, had been the first Remus had seen of Sirius in nearly two weeks. He had made two trips back to the Summit to isolate the wolf, and after the second time, Remus carried with him the order to retake Willow Hill. No one had welcomed the news.

"Fine," growled Sirius. "So what are we going to do now?"

Remus sighed again. "It's a sticky problem. There's nothing to do but attack head-on. Problem is, even if we do succeed, our losses would make that a Phyrric victory. We may not be able to hold out when their reinforcements arrive."

"Then we'll have to make our move under cover of darkness," concluded Sirius. "Massive attack. Nightfall."

Remus shook his head. "They'll be expecting that. Already I see them preparing extended Illumination enchantments on the plain. By twilight it'll look like New Year's Eve out there."

Sirius turned away in disgust. "Perfect," he said. "Just perfect. How're we supposed to get at them now? I—what the…?" His hand suddenly came down on Remus's shoulder. "What the hell is that?"

Remus whirled about. "What?"

"That over there! Just above the trees in the east!"

Frowning, Remus turned his spyglass in the direction Sirius was pointing. He made out five figures flying just over the white treetops, doing their best to keep hidden. The men had seen them too; they were readying their wands against the intruders.

Remus instantly recognized two due to their distinctive red hair. "They appear to be my former students," he said, and signaled to their men to let them through.

Sirius shaded his eyes. "But what on earth are they doing here?" he wondered.

"It looks like they want to talk to us." Remus turned to him. "Or rather, to me. It would be wise if you went undercover for a while."

Sirius nodded, and in a trice he was merely a large, dark-haired, shaggy dog.

It took scarcely a minute before the flyers landed before Remus. Ron was the first off his broom. "Professor Lupin!" he cried, clasping Remus's hand, then bending down to pet the dog beside him. "And how've you been, Padfoot? Staying out of trouble?"

Remus took each of the broom riders' hands. He knew Ron's younger sister Ginny and Cho Chang from Ravenclaw—all three had attended his class during his tenure in Hogwarts. The younger two were introduced as Jane Mycroft and Merle Chamberlain, both from Hufflepuff. Searching their young faces, they seemed bright with excitement, and that worried him.

"It's wonderful to see you again," Remus said after the introductions, "but I'm afraid your timing leaves much to be desired. What exactly are you doing here?"

Ginny grinned at him. "We've got a great idea to help you win the battle, Professor." And she turned to Cho, prompting her to explain.

"Professor," she began, "please don't say anything yet, not until you've heard everything we've got to say." The girl spoke so calmly and confidently that Remus immediately concluded her to be their ringleader. And as he listened to her, his expression changed from worried, to cautious, then finally, pensive. When she had finished, Remus took a minute to absorb all he'd been told.

"An air assault, you say?" he muttered. Beside him, Padfoot began barking in dissent.

"Yes, Professor," said Cho. "We think it'll really help your cause. The Death Eaters won't be expecting it, and we think we can outmatch anyone who'll try to challenge us in the air."

Padfoot was barking incessantly now, but Remus said, "And you'll be using these…modified Dungbombs?"

"Something made by my brothers, sir," Ron butted in. "We've been training to use them for the past few weeks."

Padfoot was pawing at Remus's shoe, and Remus stepped away from him. "I see," he said. "Yes, I'm familiar with some of Fred and George's work. I don't suppose you have a sample…?"

Merle uncoupled a Dungbomb from the harness of his broom and handed it to him. Remus examined the brown and green Quaffle-shaped bomb and decided it was unwise to drop it.

By now Padfoot was chasing his own tail, but Remus ignored him. "And you guarantee this will knock out anyone caught in the blast radius?"

Before anyone could answer, Padfoot disappeared and was replaced by a glowering man with a head of unkempt dark hair. "Enough!" he roared. "All of you, drop this foolishness right now! You're just kids, for Merlin's sake! Why, if I were Dumbledore I'd—"

He paused for a moment when he realized Cho and the rest were backing away from him in bug-eyed shock.

Remus sighed. "Everyone," he said. "This is Sirius Black—yes, _the _Sirius Black."

"Um, it's all right," Ron said, palms up to placate them. "He's a friend. Really he is."

Remus added, "You have my word that he is a good and stout-hearted man wrongfully accused by the government. I promise you he poses no harm to anyone but himself."

Sirius glared at him as he said, "Look, I know you kids mean well, but let us handle this. This is a very dangerous situation we're in."

"All the more reason why you should let us help, Sirius," Ginny answered.

"Yeah," agreed her brother. "With our force and yours working together we'd have the Death Eaters outnumbered and outflanked! All we need to do is drop our Dungbombs, then you can rush in and finish them off!"

"I don't think you're taking this seriously at all," Sirius said. "This isn't a Quidditch game, by Merlin!" He whirled to his friend. "Remus, you tell them!"

"It's not a bad plan," Remus said.

Sirius's jaw dropped to the ground.

All eyes turned to Remus, who was rubbing his chin as he considered them.

Cho said, "So you agree?"

"I'll take up your offer on the following conditions: One, during your raid, you must stay out of the enemy's range as much as possible; Two, you aim specifically for two places—the town center and the town entrance. Those are the enemy's crucial points. Three, once you've dropped your last bomb, climb high and stay there. Let us do our work. No heroics. Are we clear?"

All five children nodded in assent.

He turned back to Cho. "Once you've dropped your last bomb, send us a runner so we can move in."

"Right. We will." She motioned to the rest, and they took up their brooms. "Thank you, sir. I promise we won't fail you."

"You won't fail me if you all come back alive," Remus replied, eyeing each of them in turn. "Every one of you. _Alive_."

They kicked off and Remus waved farewell as they turned into distant specks against the sky. Then he turned around to face his friend.

Sirius's face was white with rage. "Are you going to, or will I?" he said quietly.

"I've got it," Remus replied. They moved to the side away from the curious looks of their men, then Remus took out his wand and cast an Obscuring Charm on them, followed by a Silence Field.

Once they were secure, Sirius wasted no time. "What the hell was THAT?" he shouted.

"That," Remus said quietly, "was an agreement made between two groups to aid each other in the upcoming battle."

"And under whose authority did you make that agreement?"

"My own." Remus frowned. "And before you ask, yes, I'm well aware that you are the captain of this platoon and I am your executive officer. However, this is the first time I've ever known you to pull rank on me."

"How else am I going to drill into your head how messed-up this whole thing is? Good God in Heaven, Remus, you just told children to go to war!"

"They offered to help us, Sirius. We were at a tactical disadvantage. They showed us a way out, I took the opening. You know how sensitive our position is and you know we need outside support—"

"Not like this!" Sirius bellowed. "Now when we're involving kids—"

"—and it IS true that air superiority is the one thing the Dark Army does not have—"

"—does NOT mean that they can't inflict any harm on airborne units, and even a stray shot can—"

"—obvious that they HAVE been preparing themselves for this eventuality so as to limit the risk—"

"—a fall from that height would KILL, I don't care how much training—"

"—Hogwarts students and if the enemy had breached the school walls they'd be fighting for their lives then too, so I don't see—"

"IF!" roared Sirius, raising a warning finger. "IF the enemy's breached the walls! Outside of that it's OUR job, OUR JOB to risk OUR LIVES! SO YOU TELL ME WHY WE'D AGREE TO—"

"BECAUSE IT'S EXACTLY WHAT YOU'VE DONE IF YOU'D JUST TAKE YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS!"

They glared at each other for a moment, breathing hard.

"Are you going to tell me what this is really about?" Remus asked. When his friend did not answer, he added, "Sirius, these kids…they're not Harry."

"That's not what I—"

"Then if not that—what?"

"I…I…" Sirius paused, swallowed, then said, "I don't want any parent to go through what I'm going through right now. That's Molly and Arthur's children up there. Harry's friends. If we lose them…"

"What makes you think we will?"

"Anything can happen in war," he replied before falling silent.

Remus said, "You told me once, back at Vespers, that the only reason you can be brave is because Harry's safe in Hogwarts. But if there's one thing true in war, you can't protect kids forever. You can't protect anyone forever if they don't want to fight to stay free."

"That's what we're doing out here, Remus—"

"And what do you think Harry would do? I don't know where Harry is or whether he's alive or not, but I swear to you that if he were here, he'd be up there right now with his friends getting ready to fight for our lives. And he won't even let you stop him. That's what going on in those kids' heads, Padfoot. Their doing this because they know it's right. They're doing this because they know they'll be _saving lives_."

For a long time, Sirius eyed him without speaking. Then he said, "I had no idea you had ice water in your veins, not before today."

"War does that to you, I suppose," Remus said.

"Yeah," Sirius said wearily. "And yes, Moony, this _is _about Harry. I feel like I failed him. I feel like I failed James. And I feel like I'm failing Harry's friends if I don't do my best to keep them out of harm's way."

"But you can't tell kids anything, can you?" Remus said gently. "You should know."

Sirius gave a rueful shake of his head. "I didn't want them tainted by this. Remus, if we lose even a single one of them…"

"I'll take responsibility."

"Like hell. It'll be you and me both. What I was saying was, if we lose them, if we lose Ron or Ginny or whoever else is up there right now, what do we tell everyone? Dumbledore? Lyle?" He paused. "Harry?"

Remus took a long, sober moment before replying. "That we agreed with their plan," he finally replied, "and that they fought like heroes."

* * *

When Ron, Ginny, Cho and the rest returned to the team, the wind had risen into a gale and they had to shout to be heard. Everyone gathered in a circle for one last huddle.

"The Order will rush in once we've dropped the last bomb!" Cho shouted to Ernie. "One of us has to fly down and signal to them we're done!"

"I'll do it!" Ernie yelled back. "Listen, everyone! We'll adjust our targets 10 yards to the north to compensate for the wind!"

"Ten's too much!" Cho hollered back. "The wind won't blow that hard down there because the trees are shielding the town!"

"The town's on a hill, Cho—if we don't do 10 we'll cover like half the area!"

"Look, forget about compensating!" Ron shouted. "Just drop the first run as planned and see how it goes! We'll adjust later!"

Ernie nodded. "All right! Everyone, raise your hands if you understood!" All but three did so, and Ernie flew over to each of them to explain.

"Okay, everyone into position!" Cho signaled to the first wave. "Up front!"

The Chasers donned their goggles and reformed into the three-line square formation, and the Keepers brought the net full of Dungbombs to the front. Ginny could feel her veins thrumming with anticipation, but forced herself to remain calm as she checked the straps of her broom. A single thought echoed fearfully in her mind: _effective range._ Combat spells can only go so far before finally dissipating. She had to dive as the kingfisher dives; straight down, no fussing about, limbs tucked as close as possible to her body. Once she had made the drop she had to climb back up at top speed. If she lingered too long in the effective range she would get shot, and at the speeds she would be going, even a simple graze could be fatal.

Satisfied, she joined Daryll Jenkins and Fiona McGlynn at the front of the line. Ron caught her gaze as she approached.

_Come back alive_, his eyes said to her.

She nodded to him. _You too._

Cho floated at the head of the formation, facing them. She was watching Ernie, who was once again looking down at the town through his spyglass. After a moment he raised his head and nodded to Cho. It was finally time.

Cho faced Ginny and the rest of the first wave as the netmen passed out their Dungbombs. Cho squinted in the wind, and though her hair was bound tightly away from her face, several wisps had escaped and fluttered in the breeze. To Ginny she seemed like a conquering queen—Hippolyta, maybe, or Boadicea of old. Cho gazed at each of them in turn, as if to imprint their faces in her memory. Her eyes stayed on Ginny the longest. Ginny saw fear there, but also a brightness, a fierce pride in what they were about to do as sisters-in-arms.

Grinning, Ginny mouthed, _Give a speech_.

Cho grinned back. _Like what?_

_Anything._

But there was only one thing Cho really wanted to tell them, and she did so. She drew a deep breath and her fist and voice rose above the call of the wind.

**"_HOGWARTS!_" **

The shout went up through the whole Brigade, turned into a furious battlecry. Cho brought her fist down in a chopping motion, and as one Ginny and the first wave dipped down their broom handles and took the plunge.

She steadied her broom with her left hand and her knees while she kept the Dungbomb tucked beneath her right arm, just as she had been trained to do. Straight down she went…500 feet…400 feet…300 feet…the tiny houses loomed larger and larger before her. She could no longer sense her companions—the howling wind swallowed all other sound and pushed icy fingers against her face. She grit her teeth and ignored it.

And now her target was directly in front of her: the town hall, now the Death Eaters' headquarters. She was so close—there was no time to think, no time to wonder whether she would make or miss the shot—

Thirty yards away, Ginny hurled the Dungbomb at the men standing guard at the entrance. She had a fleeting glance of wide white eyes against the black cloth of their masks before they vanished in a green-brown cloud of noxious vapor. Her two comrades did not disappoint either—Daryll's shot smashed through a ground floor window and Fiona dropped hers perfectly into the chimney.

"Up!" shouted Ginny, giving a savage tug on her broom handle. She felt the Firebolt bending beneath the force of her momentum and suddenly she was rising. Ginny had no need to warn her companions—they appeared at her sides, and one glance around showed they were all smiles. Barely believing what she had done, Ginny stole a backward glance. The Dungbomb gas was an ugly greenish blot beneath them, and the Death Eaters were like dazed ants darting in every direction. Not a single shot had been fired.

They had not made halfway back up when the second wave came rushing past. Ginny cheered them on. A few seconds later, three new blots sprouted up in different sections of the town. This time, though, red beams of light darted after the assailants, and Ginny reminded herself this was not a game.

In a moment she was at the back of the line formation, being handed another Dungbomb. At the head of the line, Ernie was shouting, "Third Wave, hit the town entrance and give the Order a chance to break through the defenses there! And be careful—the enemy's shooting back!" Three more of them descended to the attack.

"We've got company!" cried Cho, tugging at Ernie's sleeve. She pointed below at the dozen dark shapes rising up in the air.

Ginny's wave was up next, but Ernie held up a hand to stop them. He raised his head to the eight beaters, but the twins sped to the front before he could speak.

"Raise 'em high, boys," George shouted, lifting his bat. Fred knocked it with his own, adding, "Get ready to spread some hell!"

Screaming incoherent war cries, they led the Beater team down to clash with the intruders.

Ginny watched, barely breathing, as her brothers were lost in a flurry of movement below her. Lights flashed as curses were fired, but as expected, none of the Death Eaters were proficient at fighting on broomsticks. It did not take long before a Bludger smashed into one of them, sending him pinwheeling into the forest below.

Ernie shouted, "We can't wait any longer! Avoid the enemy and make the drop on that defensive line at the entrance to the town! GO!"

The 30 seconds or so it took to dive through the thick of the battle were the longest Ginny had ever known. All around her was terrible shouting, curses and challenges and guttural noises and cries of pain. She could not hear her brother's voices among them, nor could she recognize faces through the blurs. It was all she could do to keep her eyes on her target and keep herself as small as possible.

This time though, her aim was off. The Dungbomb exploded in a little side street between the houses instead of the main road, and Fiona's landed right beside hers. Darryl's aim landed dead center of the road before exploding. But just as Ginny pulled up on her broom, she saw a dozen Death Eaters pour out of the foul-smelling cloud, their heads surrounded by clear fishbowl orbs that distorted their features.

_Bubblehead Charms! _Ginny thought as she began climbing again. Just then, a jet of fire lanced past her arm. _Don't fly in a straight line! _Ron's voice screamed in her brain, and she turned her flight in a rising corkscrew. She felt a blast of wind close by, but it turned out to be just Darryl, shooting past her in a blind panic.

Ginny heard a scream behind her. She glanced back just in time to see Fiona's broom shoot out from beneath her in a bright red flare. For a moment, Fiona hung flailing in mid-air—like a little bird about to take its first flight—then she began to fall.

Without thinking, Ginny yanked on the Firebolt, performing a drop-turn so sharp she thought she tasted blood on her tongue. In the next second Fiona was in her arms, and they were swaying wildly in the wind and she was terribly sure they were both going to fall. But the broom righted itself, and then she was climbing again.

The air battle seemed all but over: the Beaters seemed to have knocked down most of the Death Eaters and those who were left were fleeing. One of the twins—George, it seemed—slowed down just enough to bellow instructions at Ginny before darting away. She understood not a single word, and she barely recognized him through that fierce look twisting his face. Another wave of bombers flew past her, but Ginny barely noticed. Fiona had her arms tightly around her and she was sobbing now, really sobbing out her terror. A terrible confusion swept through Ginny. Where had the thrill gone?

The wind had dropped at last when she got back to the formation, Ginny floated near the netmen as Cho and Ernie did their best to calm Fiona down. It took a while—they had to pry the petrified girl's arms off of Ginny. After they had lead Fiona onto the net, Ginny realized it was empty.

"We've used up the Dungbombs?" she asked. "Are we done?"

"No," said Ron, holding up two more. "There's these last two. Somebody dropped one by mistake so we're short."

Ernie nodded. "We still need to clear up that defensive line, otherwise the Order won't be able to break through."

"It's useless," Ginny replied. "The Death Eaters have Bubbleheads on. The gas can't touch them anymore."

Everyone seemed to deflate at this. Cho said, "The Order's started their attack already. It's too late, Ernie. We can't risk anyone going back."

"Wait!" cried Ron. "Cho, you still got those Snares with you, right?"

She nodded. "I still got the whole dozen, but it won't work if there are too many of them. The ones who haven't been caught will just free the rest."

"We can strike together! Ginny and I will do one more run. But our attack's just a distraction. Once the Dungbombs go off, throw the Snares into the cloud. It's too thick for anyone to see anything so they won't be able to help each other, and by the time it clears up the Order will be right on top of them!"

Cho turned to Ernie, who nodded his assent. "It's sound," he said. "If it works, we can make it easy for the Order to take the town."

"All right," said Cho, turning back to Ron. She dug into her pockets, took out a handful of Snares. "On your signal, Ron. I'll be at your back."

Ron nodded, then faced Ginny. "You ready?"

Ginny did not speak. She merely accepted the last Dungbomb from him.

Finally at the ready, the three of them pointed their brooms down and took the final dive.

They swept past the fray, past the hastily climbing bombers, and as they neared the town the air came alive with hexes. Far off, Ginny could see the forces of the Order sweeping across the plain. Sirius and Remus were merely bright specks, bearing banners in the front line. She put them out of her mind. She put her family out of her mind. She gave Harry one last thought, a mental kiss, and she let him go as well.

The curses came thicker now, and she and her brother twisted through the air to dodge the worst of them. Thirty yards above the town entrance, Ginny hurled her Dungbombs down at line of Death Eaters.

She pulled up just as an explosion rang out behind her. Looking back she saw the noxious cloud spreading through the air far above the defensive line. One of the Death Eaters's curses must've been lucky enough to knock out her shot in mid-air. But what about Ron's?

Her question was answered when she heard a yell of pain above her. Looking up, she dodged just in time as a Dungbomb hurtled past. Ron had dropped it. The Comet he was riding was on fire.

"Ginny!" he cried out, and she darted up to him. In an instant he had leaped out of his broom, arms outstretched towards her. Flames licked up along one leg of his pants.

Thinking quickly, Ginny braked and twisted the broom so that she faced him sideways. She was just in time—Ron caught the broom, swinging hard as if it were a monkeybar. But before he could pull himself up, a barrage of hexes sailed past them.

"Bring us higher!" Ron shouted. His voice was filled with pain from his burnt leg.

"I can't!" she shouted back. "If I pull up you'll fall off!"

"Then just DO something!" With a grunt, Ron started to pull himself onto the broom. A bright crimson bolt whistled past to Ginny's ear, but she paid it no heed—she kept the broom level, jigging away from curses as best she could.

Finally, Ron managed to swing himself into a sitting position behind her and beat out the fire. They started rising again, veering away from the curses as best they could.

"I'm sorry," Ron gasped. "They picked me off. I panicked when they got my broom."

Cho, who was hovering above them, was wildly signaling for a retreat. Ginny shook her head.

"Wh-what're you doing?" Ron asked as Ginny turned about in slow circles, just out effective range.

"That Dungbomb you dropped—it hasn't blown up yet, see?"

Ron looked down, straining to see. "But how couldn't it have? Where is it?"

"There!" shouted Ginny, coming to halt. "That street! It landed on a snowdrift!"

Her brother's eyes followed where she pointed. Sure enough, there was the bright green orb, sitting in a crater of snow.

"We can't just go down there and pick it up!" Ron retorted.

"We don't have to!" shouted Ginny. "You're going to shoot it!"

"WHAT?"

"Just fire a curse at it, Ron, it should be enough! I'll bring us in close."

"Ginny—"

"Don't say it's too dangerous, Ron. Just don't say it, because I'm so scared right now I can barely hold this broom straight and if you say it I'm going to fly us right back up and leave Sirius and Remus to face the Death Eaters alone. But I want to do this. And we're going down there because that's exactly what Harry would've done. So just shut up and let's _go_."

Ron was quiet for a moment, then he put a hand on her shoulder. "How'd you get to be so tough all of a sudden?"

"I've always been tough. You just never noticed."

His laughter surprised her. "All right," he said. "Let's go for it!"

Ginny signaled to Cho that they were trying again. Alarmed, Cho again signaled them back to formation.

"Ready?" Ginny asked her brother, and he nodded.

They dove back down. Immediately the hexes flew thick and fast around them, and Ginny swerved left and right to avoid. There were so many…they threatened to blot out the world. One curse, a bright emerald green, pulsed close to them, and she felt cold crawl across her side. She tried not to think about what curse that was.

"Ron, shoot it!"

Ron raised his wand over her shoulder, began yelling out hexes. They rained around the perimeter of the snow mound, but not one hit the crater.

"Hold us steady, damn it!" he shouted.

"I'm trying!" But another curse, closer and colder than the last, streaked past her arm. Ginny had no choice. She swooped even closer to the rooftops. They were less than twenty yards from the ground and moving faster than ever.

"RON, SHOOT!"

Her brother screamed something incoherent, and a bright blue curse struck the Dungbomb. The Death Eaters scattered away as the orb exploded into a sickly green cloud of smoke. It loomed larger than any Ginny had ever seen, and for an instant it was one of the most beautiful things she had ever laid eyes on.

"Ron, you did it! You—"

"Ginny, pull up! _Pull up_!"

Ginny realized they were heading straight for that cloud and yanked on the Firebolt as hard as she could.

"PULL! UP!" shrieked Ron, shielding his face with his arm. "GINNY—!"

Whatever else Ron was about to say was smothered as they hurtled into the cloud, and Ginny's impression of beauty dissolved with a single drawn breath.

The stench was like nothing she had ever known. Skunk oil, rotting fruit, uncovered garbage bins left in the sun, toilets that hadn't been cleaned in a year—it was all that and worse, and she was drowning in it. She could barely believe her own brothers could imagine something so horrific. All rational thought fled from her brain, save for the singular need to _get the hell out_.

She pulled harder on the broom handle, and in a heartbeat they reemerged from the cloud—it had only been a moment, but it felt like a stinking eternity. Gasping for air, she failed to notice that they were headed straight for the second floor of a nearby house. Perhaps she could have avoided it if she had her wits about her, perhaps not. All she knew was there was a window, then there was no window, just a terrible shattering noise and lots of flying shards, and a dark-faced man whose hood could not completely hide his look of surprise. Then the man seemed to fold into a sickening crunch, and Ginny saw no more.

* * *

The darkness was a warm, soft place, with no sense of time and nothing to do—no school work, no practice sessions, not a care in the world. Ginny felt so comfortable that she buried herself into it for what seemed like forever.

But then a soft voice began calling to her. "Ginny? Ginny, if you can hear me, open your eyes." She felt compelled to follow, and after brief struggle to find which part of her were her eyes, she managed to open them.

Above her, a blurry face framed with long dark hair. Ginny squinted and at last recognized the smiling face. "Welcome back," said Cho.

Ginny tried to reply, perhaps ask where she was, but the only thing that came out of her mouth was a strangled groan.

"Yup," said Cho. "Exactly what you deserve for playing the hero."

Ginny was starting to think that whatever she did to be dubbed a "hero," it was probably not worth this suffering. Both her legs and her right arm felt like toys dropped too many times, and her left hand involuntarily twitched with pain.

"Wh-where am I?" she croaked, as Cho sat on the side of her bed.

"Hogwarts. The Hospital Wing, to be accurate. Here, drink this." Cho picked up a glass of brackish liquid from the bedside table. "Madame Pomfrey told me to make you drink it once you've woken up. It'll help with the pain."

Cho helped Ginny tilt her head enough to sip. Ginny made a face; the vile thing tasted like moldy cheese. After a few minutes, though, the pain began to lift from her limbs and she could think clearly. She was in bed, surrounded by yellow curtains that smelled of jasmine. An open window above her let in a slant of sunlight and a fresh breeze, heavenly things after her experience with the Dungbomb cloud. The clock on the far wall told her it was five in the afternoon. Her limbs felt heavy for some reason, and a glance around her told her that both her legs and her right arm were blocked in casts.

"Cho," she asked in terror, "how bad is it?"

Cho laughed at her expression. "You'll be all right, Ginny. You broke your right arm and fractured both your legs. Madame Pomfrey says she'll have you on your feet in no time. And don't worry about your Firebolt either—miraculously it's still in one piece. But as for the Death Eater who broke your fall, well, you broke most of his bones, so he won't be doing much of anything."

"And Ron?"

"Your brother's in better shape than you are. He's been awake since yesterday. You, however, have been asleep for two whole days."

"_What_? What happened? Did we win? Did you get to use your Snares?"

Cho laughed again. "I was right behind you the whole time! Yeah, the plan worked like a charm—we got the defensive line down long enough for the Order to break through. I had enough sense not to go charging into that gas cloud, though."

Ginny was about to protest this slur on her flying skills, when the curtain to her left suddenly flew open.

"You're awake?" demanded Hermione.

"Um, hi," said Ginny, raising her left arm.

"_Merlin_, Ginny!" Hermione huddled close and grabbed her hand. "How could you even consider taking such an awful risk? I'm never going to forget this for as long as I live! You, Ron—you BOTH broke our agreement!"

"Oi," said a voice behind her, and Ginny looked over to see Ron in the next bed. He had a bandage across the bridge of his nose and a dark ring around his left eye. "What do you think this is, some kinda schoolyard fight? We're in a war, Hermione. You can't avoid risks."

Hermione put her fingers against her temples. "There are risks," she stated, "and there are RISKS. Do you two realize you're going to be the death of me?"

"Guys, wait a minute, please," Ginny said. "Exactly what happened?"

They told her. After they had knocked out the last remaining defense the enemy contingent was in shambles; the Order rushed in and cleaned them out. Before long, most the remaining Death Eaters had surrendered. Not only that—the Order also succeeded in rescuing all remaining hostages. They were being held in the room Ron and Ginny had flown into—they had, in fact, crashed into their guard.

"Sirius and Remus were in here earlier and had a word with Ron," Hermione finished. "They want to thank you personally once you've woken up."

"They weren't the only ones here," Cho added glumly. "The Headmaster came too. Said he wanted to speak with the entire Brigade." She paused. "He had the word 'disband' written all over his face."

Ron gave an angry grunt from his bed.

"But…but he can't ask us to do that!" Ginny cried. "I mean, we won! We helped beat the Dark Army! We practically saved Hogwarts!"

"Are you gonna let him do it?" Ron demanded.

"Of course not," replied Cho, looking appalled by the idea. "Ginny's right. We've proven ourselves. And if we can help defend Hogwarts in any way, we have to do it. Not even Professor Dumbledore can deny that."

They all gazed at Hermione, who had remained quiet all this time. "Oh, all right!" Hermione snapped. "It's not that I don't agree with you. But think about the professors for a moment, will you? It's their duty to protect the students of Hogwarts and here we are engaging the enemy on our own! How do you think it makes them feel that we're putting our lives on the line and taking foolish risks?"

"I think they ought to be proud that we know how to kick Death Eater ass," quipped Ron.

Hermione glared at him. "Fine. If you won't listen to me, maybe you'll listen to your mother. I wrote her everything that happened. She'll be here by tomorrow."

Both Ginny and Ron gaped at her. "WHAT? Hermione, how could you—"

"AND! You're getting a Howler apiece for that stunt you pulled."

Ginny groaned. "You're betraying us in the worst way, you know that?"

"I'm not leaving the Brigade," announced Ron. "That's final!"

Hermione sighed. Neither, apparently, was she. She got up and walked over to his side. "Come on, Ron, time for your medicine."

"Already? Can't it wait till after dinner? It changes the way my food tastes..."

"_It's time for your medicine_." And Hermione closed the curtains with a snap of her wrist.

Ginny turned to Cho. "I'm really sorry I worried you. Have you been waiting all day?"

Cho grinned at her. "Oh, I haven't been waiting by your bed as long as a certain _someone _has."

"Who?"

"Don't play dumb. Harry's been here every free hour he could get. He even brings your niffler along. By the look on his face, he must've been thinking you were never going to wake up. I had to push him out the door so he wouldn't miss class."

Ginny mentally slapped her forehead. Oh, Jamie. Hermione did have a point—they worried so many people with these risks they were taking. She had to be more careful from now on.

"When do you think he'll be back?" she asked Cho.

"Probably in another hour. Tell you what, I'll go look for him. Why don't you take a nap in the meantime?"

Ginny began to say she wanted to stay awake, but at the word "nap" she found herself yawning. "Precisely," Cho said. She got up and drew back the curtain. "I'll see you in a little bit. Meantime, get some rest."

Ginny did not know how long she slept, but woke when she felt someone touch her hand.

"Ginny?" said Cho.

"I'm awake," Ginny replied, opening her eyes to peer up at her friend. It was darker now, and the window above her bed had been closed to keep out the chilly winter air. There was, however, no one else in the small square of her area.

"Didn't you find him?" Ginny asked.

"Oh, I did," said Cho. "But he wouldn't come alone."

She drew back the curtain, and to Ginny's surprise the entire choir was there, lined up at the foot of her bed. Jamie stood in front of them, smiling at her. But before she could say anything he turned around and raised his arms, and then she gasped as her ears recognized the first sweet strains of "No Frontiers."

_If your life is a rough bed of brambles and nails_

_And your spirit's a slave to man's whips and man's jails_

_Where you thirst and you hunger for justice and right_

_And your heart is a pure flame of man's constant night_

_In your eyes, faint as the singing of a lark_

_That somehow this black night_

_Feels warmer for the spark…_

Cho whispered to Ginny, "Harry tells me that since you've been in the Hospital Wing, he'd had them practicing every hour they could get so you can hear this once you've woken up."

Her words came as an afterthought to Ginny, who was listening raptly to the song. She was utterly amazed at how perfect it sounded. It was hard to smile at each of their faces when her eyes were blurry with tears, but she did the best she could. She wanted to sing with them, but she feared her voice might break and mar the beauty of what she was hearing. However, Jamie turned his head and motioned to her to join them, and after a moment's hesitation, she did.

_To hold us till the day_

_When fear will lose its grip_

_And heaven has its ways_

_Heaven knows no frontiers_

_And I've seen heaven in your eyes_

When the song was finished, Cho and Ginny broke into applause. The choir didn't even remember to bow; all smiles, they surged around Ginny, congratulating her on their victory and asking about the battle. She answered them as best she could, but somehow missed that Jamie was hanging back from the crowd.

* * *

"Can I have a minute?" Jamie whispered as he came to stand beside Cho.

She blinked at him in surprise. "Sure, what is it?"

He was not quite looking at her when he said, "Is…is the Brigade still looking for recruits?"

She sighed. "Well, it's a little complicated right now, but—"

"Because I'd like to sign up. If that's okay."

Cho regarded him for a moment, then followed his gaze to Ginny's bandaged limbs and understood. She smiled in sympathy as she put a hand on his arm. "I'm glad that you also have something you want to protect."

Jamie did not reply, nor did he even look at her. His green eyes caught Ginny's gaze, and at her smile he reached out to take her hand.

_To be continued_

_Author's Notes:_

_1. I apologize that it took three months before I could get this out. Given my recent misfortunes it was the best I could do. The next ones will come sooner. _

_2. _"_Plans never survive the first engagement with the enemy." -Field Marshall Helmuth von Moltke (1845--1916) Amen to that. _

_3. Up next: Tenets. Snows of solitude. Volarius. Into the heart. Sitting still. Singularity._

_Chapter XXVI: "The Will of the Moon"_


	27. The Will of the Moon

**The Phoenix and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter XXVI: The Will of the Moon **

The cold came, as it always did, with the faintest stirring of a breeze. Harry paused in his trek through the hinterlands when he felt the wind's breath on his cheek. A single snowflake fell before his eyes, one final warning for him to turn back, and though Harry always wanted to, he never did.

A few minutes later, the wind began to moan. Flecks of white rained down from the ashen sky, and his steps crunched on ice-glazed tundra grass. There was no keeping the cold out now; it crept through every hole in his clothing, curled its fingers against his skin. The fog parted like a curtain in the breeze. His breath began to steam.

Harry never knew why the hinterlands did this to him, nor what all this was supposed to mean. Dahlia either could not or would not explain it, though she did say in her usual roundabout fashion that he had all the answers anyway; it was all a matter of finding the question. Harry knew that neither the shrieking wind nor the blanket of snow rapidly enfolding his knees were real, but that didn't help. No matter how he told himself otherwise, he was _cold_.

Stumbling on, he wrapped his arms around himself, not so much to keep out the cold but to stop shivering long enough to walk straight. But now the snow came at him from all directions, a blinding dream of white and gray. The trail he had blazed was disappearing behind him. He was breathing hard, and could not longer think of anything but the cold, the way it seemed to be freezing the very thoughts in his head.

Then the voices came.

Harry froze in his tracks as he heard laughter in the air. The voices that spoke were as familiar as his own. Harry swung to his left, squinting against the wind, and made out figures through the snow going in his direction.

"So what do you feel like doing tonight?" asked Mrs. Weasley.

"Nothing much," her husband replied. "Say, fancy swinging into town? Sommerlay's been boasting about his fresh batch of '98 wines, and was thinking we ought to try a drop."

Harry recognized them all, the nearest and dearest to his heart. Some walked alone, some in pairs. Close behind the Weasleys walked Sirius, Remus, Fred, George, Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall. They talked avidly amongst themselves as if the snowstorm did not exist. Unlike Harry, they were not even ploughing through the snow, but walking _on top _of it

Harry staggered towards them, crying out each of their names, but as always the wind swallowed his voice and the snowdrift sucked in his feet with each step.

Two figures, walking hand in hand, came the closest to him, and the sight of them made his heart ache.

"Do you think we'll ever see him again?" whispered Hermione. Her face was sad, but there was a warm look in her eyes that she could only give to Ron.

"I don't know if we will," Ron sighed. "It's been so long."

Hermione nodded. She laid her head on his shoulder and shut her eyes. "I miss him, Ron. I only wish he knew just how much we do."

"I'M RIGHT HERE!" Harry screamed at them. "HELP ME!"

But now even he could barely make out his own words. Ron and Hermione walked past him, just an arm's length away. Harry knew they were illusions, every one. That did not stop him from lunging at them through the ice with his hands outstretched. If he could just touch them, he would be warm again.

But he couldn't; their steady pace always kept them beyond his grasp. He fell face-first into the snow. He only had enough energy to lift his head and watch as they walked on. Ron held Hermione close, whispering comforting words, and Harry sensed that it didn't really matter if they never saw him again—they had each other, and things could go on as before.

She was the last of them, always the last. He heard the lilt and the smile in her voice, filled with the pleasure of singing.

"_Take me home to the meadow that cradles my heart_

_Where the waves reach as far you can see_

_Take me home to the meadow, we've been too long apart_

_I can still hear you calling for me."_

Harry forced himself onto his back, but could only catch a glimpse as she stepped over him. She was real; he felt the material of her robe as it brushed across his arm, the warmth of her closeness like the briefest of kisses.

"Ginny," he croaked. "Ginny, _please_."

She walked on, not sparing so much as a backward glance. Seemingly out of nowhere, a figure stepped into his range of vision. He put an arm around her shoulders, and Ginny turned to smile at him. Harry never knew who this person was—if it was Dean or Neville or someone else entirely. Whoever he was, he was taking Ginny away.

Soon the wind stole the sweetness of her voice, and she too vanished behind a white curtain.

Harry had nothing left. The last of his strength failed, and he fell back into the snow and closed his eyes.

* * *

"Harry." 

The voice spoke close to his ear. When Harry opened his eyes, he found himself gazing into a pair of emerald eyes. Dahlia knelt close to him, one cool hand upon his brow. He was once again in the same field where the flowers swayed in the warm spring breeze, and the sun shone brightly above them.

"Can you sit up?" she asked.

"Yeah." He sat up without any trouble. He didn't feel cold at all, except, of course, inside.

"It's getting worse," he muttered. "I couldn't get through at all." The image of the people he most cared for turning their backs on him made him shudder, and he pushed the thought away.

"Yes," Dahlia reflected aloud. "You appear to giving yourself a difficult time."

He goggled at her. "It's not like I want it to be caught in a metaphysical snowstorm!"

"What we truly want," she said, rising to her feet, "is sometimes a mystery even to us."

She bade him to get up and follow her, and he did so.

"Several days ago," she said, "I have asked for some time alone that I may gather my thoughts on what to tell you about Singularity."

At this, anticipation flooded through Harry. The two weeks of waiting had made him impatient. Was she ready to divulge her secrets now?

She went on, "I have attempted, many times both these past few days and over the course of my years here, to mince Singularity into words another could easily understand. I have yet to succeed." She stopped near a grassy slope beside the grove and sat down.

Harry tried to process what she was trying to say. "You mean…you can't really explain it?"

"Singularity requires two things of the seeker. One is useless without the other, as a single wing is useless to a bird. First, an understanding of the nature of magic, and second, an understanding of one's heart. The first can be taught; the second may only be discovered. The first can be learned here in the heart of the Crystal; the second can only be found in the hinterlands.

"In that case, I've been doing my part with the second half," said Harry. "So, d'you think you can teach me the first half now?"

"I shall." Dahlia regarded him a moment with her cat's eye gaze, then bade him to sit down beside her. "The first thing you learn," she said, "is breathing."

Harry nodded to show he understood, then realized a second later he hadn't. "Breathing?"

"Time passes, one grows older, and it is possible to forget one is breathing. It is also possible for one to forget how to breathe." She shifted in place to sit comfortably. "This is the first skill you learn; without this, no further progress can be made. Are you comfortable where you are?"

When Harry nodded, she said, "Be aware of your breathing. Listen to it, feel it. Then tell me what it is like."

Harry did so. After a moment, he said, "I don't…really know what to tell you. I'm just breathing. I feel normal."

"Very well. Now, when you breathe, draw it in with your belly." She placed her palm over the area of her navel. "Concentrate here, just below your navel."

Harry put his palm on his lower stomach and tried again. The sudden rush of air tickled his nostrils and filled his lungs. 'Feels odd,' he thought, as he kept on for another moment. Suddenly he found himself aware not only of his hand on his stomach, but of his entire body. His thoughts became clear, and tension in his muscles receded. He could feel everything—his heart beating in his chest, the pulse at his neck, his skin warming in the sunshine, the grass beneath his legs.

Dahlia said, "Different, is it not?"

Harry nodded. "My breathing feels fuller."

"You are breathing," said Dahlia, "the way you did long ago, when you were just a babe in your mother's arms. But as you grew older and become careworn, your breathing drifted towards your upper lungs. You failed to draw in enough air, and thus starve your body."

She took in a deep breath and released it. "We will breathe properly from now on, as children do. In your most troubled moments, when you are angry or afraid or in pain, bring your breathing down away from your mind and towards your belly. Each deep breath becomes a pause, clearing your head of unnecessary thought and bringing you a moment of peace." She raised a chalk-white finger. "We will have a practice. I will say a word, '_treibhdhireas._' When I speak it, you will breathe from your belly seven times. Will you do this, Harry?"

He nodded again.

"Very good. Now we may begin our first lesson." She drew a deep breath. "Tell me," she said, "of your world."

This took Harry by surprise. "This is part of the lesson?"

"Learning goes both ways. A teacher is also a student. Tell me of things you feel are important in your world, both of the wizard and the _Non_."

She stressed the last word, and Harry realized she meant Muggles. After a minute of thinking, Harry began to talk about the wizards. He described Hogwarts and its teachers, mentioned Professor Dumbledore and the lessons he had learned. He spoke of Dark Magic and what he learned of fighting it. He spoke of Diagon Alley and its wonders, and from there segued into the Muggle world in London; cars and computers and airplanes and skyscrapers. He talked for half an hour, and Dahlia listened without interruption.

"_Non _and wizard have done much to the world," she remarked when he had finished, "but it seems they still understand little of it."

Startled, Harry asked, "What do you mean? What don't they understand?"

"Wizards have conquered the heights and plumbed the depths of magic, Harry," Dahlia replied. "Many things you have learned now would have taken years to master in my time. And yet, tell me…have your teachers ever told you what magic is?"

"What magic is?" Harry felt certain he knew; but as he thought back to his lessons, realized something else. "No," he said slowly, "we've never discussed that. Just how to use it, I suppose."

"So it seems. The nature of magic is a vital lesson, and it shall be ours for today."

She took another breath. "There are three tenets of magic you must learn." She said. "The first—magic has two aspects. Do you know of what I speak?"

Harry nodded. "There's good magic and there's evil…" But his words trailed off as Dahlia shook her head.

"You are referring to the way magic is used," she interrupted, "and not its aspects.

"Magic shifts endlessly between two aspects, or two states _Numen _and _aether_."

Harry blinked. "_Numen and aether?_"

"In motion and at rest. Active and dormant. With purpose and without."

She drew a square of silken cloth from a pouch at her waist and laid it flat upon the grass.

"The natural state of magic is _aether_, which is dormant. In this form, magic surrounds us as an invisible ocean. When left untouched, it is as the surface of a lake when the wind does not stir. It has no form, no energy, no movement, no color. It is as seamless as this piece of cloth. Magic begins in this form, and when a spell ceases, magic returns to this form.

"When a wizard uses magic, he creates a ripple in the fabric." She drew her finger in a curve, and a wrinkle appeared on the cloth. "Magic is activated, becomes _numen_. Spells take physical form, have color and substance and purpose. Is all this clear to you?"

"Yes," said Harry, still wondering where good and evil came into it.

"Very well," said Dahlia.

"The second lesson: as I mentioned, _aether_ is light as air and empty as space. It will remain so until a wizard commands it to become _numen_." She lifted her hand and touched her finger to her chest. "And wizards command magic with their hearts."

"Their hearts?" Harry repeated. "But we have schools for magic. If magic is commanded by hearts like you say, then why do we study—?"

"Harry," said Dahlia. "_Treibhdhireas."_

Harry shut his mouth and drew in seven slow lungfuls of air. Then Dahlia answered him.

"The mind may shape a spell's form, as the land may shape a body of water. But it is the will of the weather that causes water to freeze, or to melt, or to dry and turn to clouds. Do you understand? It is the _heart _that contains the will, and it is will that commands magic. Is it not true that you cannot cast a spell you do not mean, no matter how correct the incantation? Can you cast a Killing Curse, for example, if you have no intent to kill?"

"No, you can't," Harry said, recalling his lesson in Fourth Year

"And can you mend bones or close wounds, if you mean your patient harm?"

"No, that can't be done either."

"Imagine then that _aether _is a ray of colorless light, a moon ray. It will gain color only if it passes through a colored glass. The lens of the heart, therefore, colors _aether _into becoming _numen_. If you so will it, _numen _can help, and if you so will it, _numen _can harm. But _aether _turns neither good nor evil, save for what is in your heart. There is, therefore, no dark magic. There are only dark hearts. Do you understand?"

Harry was not certain whether he should believe her or not. "I've never heard of anything like this before," he said. "I think it makes some kind of sense."

"The third and last lesson, then. Magic, as we said, swings between good and evil, light and dark, at the whim of men. In the world of the _Non_, men consume trees and mountains, but few plant trees or build mountains. The same is true for wizards. Mages collect tomes of magic and staves of power, and turn _aether _to _numen _at a whim. And when they battle, they release enormous destructive energies upon each other without the benefit of understanding. Men live by the rule of the strong, and thus bring much suffering unto the world."

She raised a hand, palm up, and arcs of fire jetted from her fingers to form flaming mobius strips in the air.

"One may, however, take the opposite way," she said, "and return magic to its original form. To turn its state from _numen _to _aether_."

"How?" Harry asked, fascinated by the ribbons of flame. "How can one do that?"

"A heart can do so, if it wills it. But can you imagine what kind of heart that must be?"

She spread her palm on the silken cloth before her, removing the wrinkles with a single pass of her hand.

"Imagine a wizard that can embrace the emptiness that is _aether_. What would his heart be like? A heart free of fear, anger, madness and despair. A heart that is at peace with itself. A heart that does not desire power, nor does it seek to subdue the world. Magic responds, flows through the lens of the heart, and turns to _aether_."

She drew in another deep breath, and the flaming ribbons above them turned into wisps of smoke before vanishing entirely. "It does not matter what form the spell takes. It does not matter how strong its caster. No matter how powerful, magic can be willed back to _aether_, by a wizard who is in harmony with its nature. _This harmony is the meaning and purpose of Singularity._"

"And you can do all that once you've reached Singularity?"

"All that," answered Dahlia, "and more than that. Far more. But we will learn one step at a time. For now, only this: your teachers have taught you to shape, now you will learn to undo."

At last, she stood up. Her robes rustled as she straightened to her full height, looking far into the sky. "These truths I have shared with you have taken many me years to learn, and many more to accept. They are yours now." She inclined her head at him. "They are simple truths, but not easy ones. Singularity requires a deep understanding, Harry, of magic and of yourself. Perhaps now you understand why the Crystal Cage is built as it is?"

A sudden spark filled Harry's mind. "It's some kind of…of psychic training ground, isn't it?" he exclaimed. "To prepare you for Singularity?"

"Training?" she repeated. "Perhaps. It is closer to say that what we do here is a question of _being_."

"And the hinterlands," Harry pursued, "they're the means by which I can get a peaceful heart, right?"

She nodded.

"But the heart of the Crystal…I don't understand what it's for, yet."

"You will, Harry, but another time. You are not yet ready."

"I'm not? Then…what do I have to do to be ready?"

She gave a noiseless flick of her wings. "_Treibhdhireas."_

Harry sighed, and again drew seven deep breaths.

She said, "Learn to breathe properly. No progress can be made without that. And for now, take the time to reflect on your lessons. We will rush nothing." She paused. "You have a task yet to fulfill, do you not?"

Harry blanched. He was in no hurry to be away from the sunshine and back in the gloom of the hinterlands. "I'm working on it," he mumbled. "But I still don't think I can win. I don't understand. I've been at this for—how many now? Forty-six times?"

"Forty-seven," Dahlia said. "Is your journey truly so difficult?"

"You should know what it's like. You've fought through it tons of times yourself, haven't you?"

She was silent, and for a moment Harry thought he might have offended her. But she simply said, "Are the hinterlands for you a hindrance, a challenge you must defeat? Think back on the ordeal in Godric's Hollow. Did you prevail then using wit, or skill, or power, or daring?"

"No," he admitted. "It didn't take any of those things."

"What did it take, then?"

He took a deep breath on his own as he remembered. "Acceptance," he replied. "I had to accept my past, and I had to let it go." He paused, the blurted out, "But it's not the same _now_. I don't understand what I have to do!"

"Is it question of doing, or of _being_?"

She left her words hanging in the air, and walked to the area where she had been digging up earth. Harry kicked at the soil near his foot. Another lock without a key. Brilliant.

He watched her for a time as she bent to inspect the first leaves of the seedlings that had sprung from the ground. "You seem to be really keen on planting flowers here," he said.

"The labor does me good," she replied, "And the flowers are for you."

That took Harry aback. "For me?"

"I plant one each time you are sent back here from the hinterlands."

His gaze shifted to the flowers, then back at her. "Thanks, I guess. They're really nice and all, but I don't see how keeping a running count of my failures can help me in any way."

"It may not help, but I thought it might cheer you to know that a new life is born with each of your disappointments, that something good may be rescued from something bad."

Harry did not know what to make of that. "Thanks for the thought, though I'd much rather not be failing." He stood up and dusted his robes. Then, doubly curious, he asked, "Did you ever plant flowers for yourself, too?"

"There used to be no flowers in this field," she answered.

* * *

It took another hour's walk to get to the hinterlands, but the icy wind wasted no time in greeting Harry once he stepped through the bordering mists. The temperature sunk like a stone in a pond, and his breath came out in clouds. 

"Okay," he muttered. "Breathe in, breath out, repeat. Got it?"

The exercise had no tangible effect, save for making him more aware of the cold and creating larger puffs of clouds from his mouth. Steeling himself, Harry pressed on into the tundra.

Without preamble, the snow began to fly, and the wind scattered it throughout the open plain. The mists roiled and fled, replaced by a dreamless curtain of shifting grays and whites. The desolation alone would have filled him with despair, but this time his mind was preoccupied with Dahlia's question.

Was it something he had to do, or something he had to _be_?

The wind buffeted at him, and he shielded his face with his hands so he could make some sort of headway. By now the snow had once again crept up to his knees. Gasping with effort, he came to a halt, and a sudden blast of air nearly sent him tumbling backwards. He squatted down in the snow to steady himself.

He could hear them clearly now through the mourning wind. He turned to see them walking on the snow—the Weasleys, his professors, Sirius, Remus, Ron and Hermione. No one paid him any attention. They laughed and conversed as if they were off to a day in the park or the fair.

This time, they passed close enough for Harry to touch. They looked so real, so warm in the blinding snow, that he couldn't help himself; he reached out for Sirius's hand.

His fingers melted through his godfather's skin.

Harry drew back his hand, staring at it. It had seemed as solid as a mirage, as if _he _were the illusion, and not Sirius.

He wanted to cry now. Or scream. Maybe both at the same time. Instead, he took another deep breath.

_What must I **be **to get past this?_

In a moment they had all passed him, except for one. Ginny was coming towards him. Unmindful of the wind, he stood up and gazed at her. She was smiling, humming a favorite tune to herself, and not even the snow could conceal the clarity of her eyes.

Harry opened his arms and she stepped into his embrace. He felt a shimmering sensation, a momentary warmth, and she passed through him like he wasn't there, and Harry felt his heart turn to smoke.

He turned around and plunged through the snow after her. "Ginny!" he cried. "_Ginny!_"

But she was out of his reach now, her back receding into the white. A tall figure came to walk beside her and she leaned into its protective embrace. Soon they were shadows wavering in the wind, and its howl swallowed her song. Harry was alone again.

He stared hard into the void, mouth working. "I'm real," he said. "I AM real."

He dropped to his hands and knees. The storm prevented his friends from seeing, hearing or feeling him. But now the truth came to him, like a match lit in his brain.

_**He **was the storm_.

"This is my fault," he said, as if they could actually hear him. He had to breathe deeply; the words felt torn from his heart. "All of this, it's me. It's always been, and I'm sorry.

"I tried to push you away, all of you. It's what I thought I wanted. It's what I thought I had to do. I wanted to protect you. I wanted to keep you from getting hurt. That's what I kept telling myself.

"But that's a lie, isn't it? That's what this is all about. My lies."

He could feel the tears freezing on his cheeks. His throat ached, his hands felt numb in the snow. He wanted nothing more than to pass out and let oblivion take him, but he took another deep breath and the feeling passed. He had to tell his truth.

"The one I really wanted to protect was myself. I didn't want to be responsible for any of you getting hurt. I didn't want to be close to any of you if it meant that later something terrible would happen, that you'd be taken away from me. I didn't want anyone getting hurt because of me. Not after Cedric. Not after my mum and dad.

"And so I made up lies, I made up stories. I gave up Quidditch so I didn't have to face Cho or Cedric's friends. I avoided telling Dumbledore and Sirius about my scar so they wouldn't worry about me. I gave up Ron and Hermione and went off on my own because I couldn't bear the thought of losing them. And I gave _you_ up, Ginny."

He raised his eyes, straining to see her shadow through the white. "I realized I was falling for you, and I got scared. What if Voldemort found out? What if I had to go and leave you? What was the point of starting something if I didn't even know if I had a future? So I pushed you away. I hurt you. I shouted at you and called you a meddler and told you to leave me alone. And all that time I told myself, I'm doing the right thing. This is what a hero's supposed to do.

"But do you want the truth? I've never felt more stupid and selfish in my life! I made it all about me! Me!" And he laughed at the irony of it.

"And now the truth is, I'm so alone—I never told anyone how terrible it feels to be alone. I was ashamed to, because it made me feel weak and needy when I'm supposed to be the strong one. But that's the truth. I'm needy.

"I need you. I need all of you. I don't want to be alone."

He shut his eyes and lowered his head. He felt empty now; the hurt passed like poison bled from his system.

"Don't let me be alone."

A warm tear dropped from his face and onto the back of his hand, and he opened his eyes in surprise.

The wind had ceased its howling. Instead, a gentle summer breeze was beginning to blow. His face was moist, without a trace of frost. His hands and feet were no longer numb. And the white flecks skating down before his eyes weren't snowflakes at all. They were—

Dandelions.

He was kneeling in a field of dandelions. They were even falling from the sky in a gentle sloping rain. Unbelieving, he pursed his lips and blew upwards. Tiny pale wisps paused in their fall and did in a fairy jig, dancing and swirling before his eyes.

_Do wishes count for anything?_

_They do. They always do._

Now he could hear voices again in the distance, pure, distinct. It was them, all his friends and loved ones. They were singing to him from afar, and their songs were filled with love and longing, of meetings near hearth fires, of a home that waited at the end of a long journey.

Harry got to his feet, surrounded by music and a thousand falling dandelions. He wiped his eyes and smiled. He felt as light as the pristine wisps that billowed by him. Even if the voices were illusions, even if he was truly alone out here, he knew there was something different now. And that once he finally left the Crystal, when he was finally among friends, he would do things differently.

He stood in that field for a long time, listening, drinking it in, until at last his surroundings faded away into mists. It didn't matter so much anymore, though.

For the first time in a long while, he no longer felt alone, or unloved. And he felt not the least bit cold.

* * *

He found Dahlia sitting on a large rock in the hinterlands, her back towards him, with her head lowered as if in thought. 

"I wanted to see you again," he said as he came up to her. "I want to thank you."

She raised her head, gave a gentle flap of her wings in greeting. "I did nothing. You possessed the answer all along, and it seems you are nearing the end of your trials."

"You got me into it. I would have gone on and on, if you hadn't asked me those things." He rounded the stone to face her and stopped, peering at her. "But what are you doing out here?"

"I wanted to speak with you," she said.

He blinked. "Here?"

"In the hinterlands, yes." She gazed around them at the surrounding mists and seemed oddly troubled. "I come here freely sometimes, to see the past. Sometimes, remembering the past helps to clarify the present."

"So, that's what you're here for? To look at the past?"

She shook her head. "Not me." She paused, considering him with those uncanny jade eyes.

"Okay," said Harry, discomfited with her silence. "Well…what is it?"

Dahlia regarded him a moment longer, then said, "There is something I wish to show you." She raised her hand and pointed with one crimson nail.

Harry turned to his right. In the distance, several huge shadows loomed in the mists. He gazed at her for a clue, but her face was impassive.

"Go and see."

He turned and walked towards the distant, hulking shadows.

The mists parted, and Harry nearly tripped as his foot struck something that rang with a loud _clunk! _Catching his balance, he stared back at the object near his foot, and stepped back with a gasp.

On the ground lay an open-faced wooden helm. Inside was a severed skull, burnt black to the roots of its teeth.

The rest of the skeleton lay close by, and just ways from it lay another burnt corpse, and another, and another. Peering through the mists, he found himself surrounded by the remains of a great army—broken swords and spears, split shields, a tattered war banner that flew on, propped up by a ragged, kneeling corpse. Whoever defeated them must've been terrible indeed.

Shuddering, Harry hurried on, and found himself standing in the shadow of great gray stones that towered like giants. A pair stood close together, joined by a third that lay atop them, forming a kind of primeval doorway. Night was falling. A half moon hung above the orange line in the east like a bloated, bleary eye. Torches scattered throughout the grounds revealed a circle of stones. Their flames did not waver in the still evening air.

Harry recognized this place. He'd seen enough postcards in souvenir shops to know it, despite never having gone here himself. This was Stonehenge.

'Why did she bring me here?' he wondered, as he stepped through the doorway of obelisks. Then a memory glimmered in his mind. Back in Hogwarts, Dumbledore had told him of something important that happened here. It was part of the legend.

Then his eyes widened in realization. Stonehenge was the site of a battle. The last confrontation between the Cimmerian Sorceress and—

Something sailed from across the stone circle and crashed into the obelisk to his right with bone-breaking force. Harry recoiled from the figure splayed against the surface of the rock.

The old man was clad in rich green robes trimmed with golden ivy. A torc of silver circled his neck. Clutched in one hand was a wooden scepter, the dragonhead piece biting onto a glimmering pale jewel. The man's face would've been stately, perhaps even commanding, but now it was wracked with pain. Blood flowed from his wounded scalp down his sallow cheek. His lips were pulled back in an agonized grin as he struggled against an unspeakable force that held him up against the stone.

But still he lay there with limbs outstretched, like an insect that had flung itself into a spider's web. Then, as Harry watched, the force released its grip and the old man slid to collapse facedown upon the grass.

Harry heard the familiar flutter of wings, and an inexplicable chill ran down his spine. He slowly turned to look behind him.

She stood atop a towering obelisk, gazing down at the scene beneath her. She was clad in resplendent robes of crimson and framed by wings of jet. One hand was propped carelessly on her hip, the other held an obsidian-tipped spear. The glaring moon lit her from above, the torch fires from below.

Harry felt every follicle of hair stand on end. When he first laid eyes on Dahlia, her terrible beauty had convinced him of her evil nature, but he'd been wrong. Now, though, there was no mistaking it, for the sight of her woke in him no awe but a mortal fear. Her rich red hair flowed like blood from a mortal wound. Her skin was pale as whitewashed tombs, and her cold eyes burned like a brimstone flame. Even her shadow on the stone did not seem right; it flickered here and there like a dark flame, and looking at it made Harry's head hurt. This was a beauty that would never age and never die. It was unnatural, profane—the face of a goddess on a living corpse.

_This was Dahlia at the height of her power, _he realized._ This was the Cimmerian Sorceress, a thousand years ago._

He saw she was not alone. Perched on the circling stones were crows—huge, ugly things with bushy feathers, blending in the dark so well they seemed beyond counting. A murder of crows. She was their queen, and here they were holding court.

Harry whirled as he heard a hacking cough beside him. The old man had forced himself to his hands and knees. Could thisbe Volarius?

The old man lifted his wand, pointing it at Dahlia. The jewel sparked like starfire, and Harry recognized the fine silver mist of a Patronus as a huge spectral eagle leaped out at his enemy with a piercing cry.

Dahlia did not even move—she did not have to. Her shadow leaped out from beneath her in the shape of a giant wolf, and the dark beast met the eagle in mid-flight, killing the bird with a single snap of its jaws. Both creatures instantly melted into nothing.

The wizard shrank back to the ground, as if Dahlia had dealt the mortal blow. Blood and spittle dripped from his mouth to the grass. "Even if you kill me," he gasped, "you will never triumph…my power dies with me…and my people will fight…till the breaking of the world."

Dahlia spoke in voice Harry felt as much as heard; it shimmered through the air like a dreamsong, like the first breath of December icing through the grass. "You still do not understand," she said. "I do not crave your dominion. I do not crave your might. I have as much of these as I could ever want."

She stretched her hand and red bolts flashed from her fingers. Harry scrambled backwards as the old man screamed, writhing on the ground like a serpent pinned by a sword. His wand rolled away from his open hand onto the smoking grass.

"All I want, Aloran," said Dahlia, "is your worthless life."

She flicked her wings and on silent command her crows took flight. Cawing madly, they descended upon her helpless victim, and Harry could no longer see the wizard through the shifting dark mass of wings, beaks, and mad, black eyes

As he stared up in abject horror at the woman on the stone, Harry could scarcely believe she was the same Dahlia he had spent all this time with, who comforted and guided him in his stay here. It was not possible for his mentor and this virulent, cruel being to be one and the same.

Suddenly, Dahlia raised her head and sniffed the air.

"Is it really you?" she asked aloud. "Are you truly here, on these shores?"

For one awful moment Harry thought she had caught his scent. But a smile broke on her lips, made feral by her fangs. "Come forth, come forth, child of Aspen and Thorn! Long have I longed to look upon your face, and my dead heart warms to know you are near. Come to me, Volarius!"

Harry heard soft footfalls to his right, and a man stepped into the moonlight. He seemed in his early 50s; gray streaks marred his short beard and the dark curls of hair, and lines were etched beneath his eyes. Compared to Dahlia, he looked neither impressive nor majestic—his garb was that of a journeyman: worn sandals and a pale tan tunic under an open brown robe. He did not carry a wand, or a staff, or a sword.

Harry found him strangely familiar.

"You are welcome here, Volarius," Dahlia said. She favored him with a gleeful, hungry look; Harry's blood ran cold as she gave a tiny lick of her lips "Would you greet your cousin with a kiss?"

Volarius returned her gaze, and for some reason Harry felt his terror abating. This man's eyes were as calm as a windless sea, and when he spoke his voice was certain and without fear.

"It has been a long time, Eirin."

Dahlia's smile vanished like smoke. Harry felt her displeasure, and thought this would be a very short reunion indeed, but Volarius ignored her and approached her fallen opponent. He waved his hand and a sudden gust of wind scattered the protesting crows. Kneeling, he lifted the battered wizard up by his shoulders.

"Once we called him Aloran the All-Father," intoned Dahlia, "the North Star who stayed in place while all other stars whirled in homage around him. He was a wise and willful, and beneath his guidance many clans prospered for many years. Thus I granted him a mark of respect. I did not drink his blood."

The old wizard's lips were moving, muttering things too low for Harry's ears, and Volarius bent down to listen. When the dying man breathed his last, Volarius whispered a blessing and passed his hand over the wizard's eyes.

He raised his head at the whisper of movement. Dahlia alighted on the ground, catching herself on small alabaster feet that vanished quickly into her robes. She smiled at him again, her wings flowing around her shoulders like a cloak of night. The torches spat and wavered and dimmed at her nearness.

"Such hasty return from Rome, Volarius," she said. "It has been how years since we last locked eyes? Tell me, great sage, do you come now with Promethean flame? What wonders do you bear from your garden of delights?"

Volarius stood up. His stance was relaxed, non-threatening. "I come with nothing in my hands. I come to you tonight in hopes that somehow we may steal back some good from all this evil."

Dahlia was gliding along the perimeter of the stones, a conqueror inspecting a new domain. "Good?" she mused. "You will find no more good in these lands. From shore to shore you can hear the keening of women, and the very earth reeks of blood and carrion. The only pure thing left is the moon, and look how mute she is with dismay."

His eyes never left her. "Eirin," he said, "I have come to keep my promise."

"_Do not speak to me of promises!_"

She snapped her brimstone eyes at him, and her wings rose like the hackles of a wolf. "Do not speak to me of Eirin. She died on the fields of Shun many years ago, where the birds and the night-things feasted upon her body till there was naught else left, not even dreams. And as for Arlen, he had lost himself in Rome, amongst its pillars and its women and its alien ideas. The promises they had hoped and lived for lie with the ruin of their years.

"Eirin and Arlen are gone. Only Dahlia and Volarius remain."

As Harry stared hard at the face of the man, realization came down like an avalanche.

It was him. The cheeks, the brows, the set of the eyes._ The boy in the statue._

Volarius said, "Our names were given to us on the day of our birth. I speak them to remind you of who we truly are, to recall that which is immortal in us."

Dahlia's teeth glittered in the wan light. "Do you want to know what immortality is, Volarius? I know it. I have tasted it."

She approached him, walking on her toes like a cat stalking a cornered prey.

"I," she said, "am known by many names. The Norse say I am Rathgrith, demon of the North Sea. The western tribes call me Badb Catha, the Battleraven. The outlanders named me the Lady of Crows. To the Druids, I am Cimmerian Sorceress and Vampire Queen."

She drifted closer, looming like a thundercloud, and if Harry could sink like a ghost into the ground, he would have done so gladly.

"I am the Doom of Indech, I am the Washer at the Fjord. I am the Morrígan. I am death and what waits beyond. _I am Dahlia, and I have no equal._"

An icy wind whistled through the stones, killing every torch. There was no other light save the pale moon and green orbs of the vampire's eyes. But Harry still heard Volarius's words, clear as a church bell's ringing.

"Each name you say is but a bar of a cage," he said. "Would that you choose to be free, Aspen-born. Will you bind yourself to your suffering forever?"

"Speak not to me of suffering," she said. "You know not what it is. But you will learn soon enough."

Still Volarius made no move. He gave no ground nor drew any weapon as Dahlia advanced on him. They stood before each other, two legends of a forgotten age. He stayed very still, like the tower of a fortress, and her hair flew on the breeze like the banner of an army.

"I have bid you once to stand at my side, my cousin," said Dahlia. "But it seems you will not change your mind."

"I will not serve you," said Volarius, "though I have been always been bound to you. In that, my heart shall never change. But I will not serve you."

"Then why come to me, Volarius? Do you believe I would go back to you now that my task is complete? Or do you simply tire of breathing?"

"I will do what I must. I have made my promise, and I shall keep it."

Dahlia's eyes blazed like shattering stars. She raised her spear high overhead.

"_GET YOU AND YOUR PROMISES TO HELL!" _

Lightning split the sky and struck the point of her spear. Harry felt his hair stand on end as she pointed her glowing weapon at Volarius. The spear point spat out the lightning as a giant skeletal hand. Harry cried out in warning. In a single swipe they would reduce Volarius to ashes—

But before the pale fingers could close around his body, they melted away into thin silver mist, the heat dissipating like a dream.

Volarius had not done a thing.

Dahlia gazed at him with wide, white eyes. But she hesitated only a moment. She stretched out her hand, clenched it into a claw. Her nails blazed red and a comet erupted from her palm, but it too disappeared into a puff of smoke three feet from its intended victim.

_Aether_, came Harry's unbidden thought. _Numen _to _aether_.

For the next 10 minutes, Harry witnessed the most vicious show of spellcasting he'd ever seen. Dahlia hurled everything she could: sleet and hail, shards of glass and an army of swords. Giant hands of stone erupted from the earth, grasping and crushing. The air came alive with spectral wolves and owls and all manner of night creatures. A dragonhead appeared from thin air and its flaming breath blotted out Volarius from sight.

And when she had finished, when their surroundings simmered like desert air and the faces of the stones were black with soot, Volarius still stood where he was. Everything Harry looked at was charred and smoking, but the silent mage stood in a six-foot wide circle of untouched grass, not a hair turned nor a singe on his robes. He stood with his arms at his sides like a man waiting for rain.

Dahlia's face was terrible indeed; her lips were pulled back in a snarl, her green gaze filled with anger and fear. "What power is this?" she whispered.

"Not power," Volarius whispered back. "_Will_. The will of the moon on the waters of the sea."

Dahlia screamed, and her scream turned into a swarm of wasps that hurled itself at her enemy. But even these dropped to the earth and turned to ash before vanishing. Then Dahlia raised her spear. Harry saw the spear's head turn into a snake's, hissing, fangs dripping, before she hurled it with all her might. Volarius stepped away like a door swinging inward, but Harry marked how the spearhead reverted back to its original form as it whistled past him.

Dahlia then vaulted into the air. She floated several feet above the circle of stones with her hands held aloft, and said a string of words in an alien, buzzing tongue. The air crackled and hummed, the sky flashed a harsh red glare, and a great sphere of energy appeared in her palms. It loomed above them like a second sun, circled by a flaming corona, but inside was darkness. No, not merely darkness. Harry could make out forms within, shifting things with deformed wings and gaping eyes, things that gloated and grinned down with horrible half-faces, and some primal part of Harry knew that, illusion or not, should he let any of those things near him, he would pay for it with his soul.

Volarius took a deep breath, and the sphere imploded.

Dahlia looked up in surprise at where her summoned creatures should be, but she did not remain surprised for long. Volarius reached a hand up toward her, grasped at the air, and pulled back as if he were unveiling something invisible.

Suddenly, Dahlia plunged from the sky like fallen star.

Harry could only stare in disbelief as she fell on the grass with a dull thud. Volarius approached the defeated Cimmerian Sorceress. Dahlia lay on her front, one lifeless arm stretched before her. But when he knelt beside her and turned her over, her jade eyes were wide and staring.

"What…what did you…do to me?" Her voice was high, like a little girl's.

He lifted her up by her shoulders, as he did with Aloran. "I have taken your power from you, for the moment," he answered. And Harry saw it was true: he had changed. He was surrounded by a thin white mist, and his face glowed like another moon.

"You have…slain me." She shivered like running water, and blood tears dripped down her cheeks like tallow. "Without…my magic…I am…nothing."

He gently stroked her cheek, wiping away a crimson tear. "No," he said, "not nothing."

From his inner robe he drew out a jeweled necklace and held it above her. "Do you remember this?" he asked, and Harry saw the familiar red flash of the Crystal Cage.

Dahlia's eyes locked onto the jewel. "That's—no."

"It is our Promise Stone," he said. "I have found it for you, as I had found it for you when we were children." He held it closer to her. "It is yours once more."

"No—_no!_" Dahlia shook her head feebly, trying to get away.

But the Crystal erupted, swallowing their forms in a crimson nova light. Harry raised his arms to shield his eyes, and when he finally looked again, everything was gone. Dahlia, Volarius, the Crystal, Stonehenge. There was not even a blackened patch of grass that marked the remains of their battle.

Harry got to his feet slowly. He shook himself as if to be certain he still had all his limbs, then jumped at the sound of a voice.

"What you witnessed, Harry, was Singularity."

Dahlia emerged from the mists before him, coming from the spot where her past self had disappeared. Her wings were folded around her shoulders like a dark cloak.

"It is wandless, wordless magic," she went on. "One need not _do _anything. It relies completely on the mage's _being_. Do you understand, then, the power of a peaceful heart?"

When he did not answer, she drew closer to him, one hand reaching out for his shoulder. Harry faltered back a step.

She did not approach further. Her face was impassive, but her eyes had dimmed.

"You deserve the truth about me," was all she whispered before she turned away and took flight.

* * *

He eventually found her, after a search that lasted 4 hours. She was sitting on a low hillock beside the aspen forest, waiting for the dawn. 

"I want to apologize," he said when he came to stand beside her.

Her gaze on him was soft, bearing no ill will. "There is nothing to forgive."

"I feel like I should apologize," he persisted. "And you're always going on about how I should listen more to how I feel than how I think. If I did everything now by thinking, I should be keeping as far away from you as possible."

Sighing, he sat down beside her on the stone.

"But I'm a little different now," he said. "Just like you're a little different.

"I told myself in the hinterlands that I didn't want to be alone anymore, that I didn't want to shut out the people I care for just so I wouldn't get hurt. I promised myself that. So I'm not going to shut you out."

Dahlia watched him closely, as if to weigh every word he said.

"So," Harry said, clearing his throat, "do you think we can continue the lessons?"

For the first time, he saw her lips curve upwards into a smile that was completely human.

"As you wish."

* * *

The next few days Harry spent in preparation for their lesson couldn't have been more boring. Every hour Dahlia had him practicing his breathing. _Practicing breathing_. What on earth would his professors think of it? For once, Harry preferred slogging it out in the hinterlands, where at least he felt he was getting somewhere. 

But Dahlia was not to be moved. "You have done well with self-understanding. Now you must understand magic. One will do you no good without the other. Tell me the three tenets."

And he would do so, groaning inwardly all the while. She made him repeat it dozens of times, every day. And when she was satisfied, she would again bid him to practice breathing.

At last, after a week of this, she called him to her side and they took a stroll in the meadow. They walked along the flowers she had planted for him, which were now in full bloom, and her dark feathers murmured as they brushed against their petals.

"Tell me, Harry," she said, "what do you remember of the events in Stonehenge?"

Harry was a little surprised by her abruptness, but he knew she would not talk about it if did not have immediate importance.

"I was completely amazed," he confessed. "I thought you would crush Volarius, but he turned your magic back to _aether _without any effort at all, like he was turning off a switch. It was as you said—no matter how powerful the spell, it can be undone."

"Yes," she said. "Volarius had long mastered himself before that meeting."

The question came suddenly to Harry. "Did he…did he teach you, too, afterwards?"

"What he could. When I would deign to listen." She smiled briefly, her eyes glimmering in memory. "You remember, too, the way he finally bested me?"

Harry paused. "He did something strange. It looked like he pulled something out of you…"

"The magic within my body," she said. "The body of the wizard is also a vessel of magic, as surely as the ocean swims in a mermaid's blood. Volarius commanded the magic to flow away from me, and as one who had held on to it for so long, I could not help but collapse. This is another discipline of Singularity. As one may change the state of magic from _numen _to _aether_, one may also command magic to flow from one place to another. You will learn to do this."

"But I haven't even learned how to turn magic from one state to another!"

"That will change."

They were, Harry realized, approaching the copse of trees that formed the heart of the Crystal. Harry felt his heart swell. Something good was definitely going to happen today.

"You have done very well for yourself, Harry," Dahlia said. "You have learned much."

"Thanks," Harry said, and meant it. Dahlia's compliments came rare.

"However," she went on, "learning by rote is a pauper to experience. To be able to straighten the ripples of the cloth, you must first _perceive _the cloth. And it is time you did."

They came to the edge of the grove, and Harry noticed that several smooth rounded stones covered the grass nearby and formed a kind of rock garden. He wondered why Dahlia had put them there. He was about to ask her when the Sorceress raised her hand and wove a strange pattern in the air with her fingers. The stones began to glow an iridescent blue.

"What…" he began.

"In good time, Harry," she replied, and led him closer to the grove. She said, "You have asked, once, of the function of the heart of the Crystal."

Harry looked up at her. "Yes! So, you're going to tell me now?"

"I shall. The grove is a space empty of all magic. When one steps inside, it empties them, too, of magic."

Harry froze in place. "What?" he asked, and she repeated herself, though they both knew that he heard her perfectly well the first time. His mind was reeling back to the instant he stepped into that shadowed grove, and that feeling of having his soul sucked out of him. Now the image of Dahlia falling out of the sky made perfect sense.

"But why would—how could—what for?"

"You will understand," she replied, "once you've spent some days within."

"DAYS?"

She gently steered him closer to the grove, and it was all Harry could do not to dig his heels into the soil. "Wait, wait, please," Harry said. "You've got to tell me why I need to do this!"

She paused, as if to humor him. "Do you think you will come to harm?"

"Having all the magic sucked out of me doesn't strike me as the least bit appealing! So if you don't mind, I'd like to know what good it'll do first!"

A corner of her mouth lifted, just a fraction. "If it would do only one service, it would show you precisely what is being taken from you."

"I thought we'd already established that!"

"As I said, learning by rote is a pauper to experience." She curled her arm around his shoulders and pressed him forward. "You've known magic all your life, Harry, but I promise you, this time you shall _perceive _it."

They came to the edge of the heart. Harry's toe touched the shadow of a tree, and immediately he felt as if he had turned into a pillar of ice.

"There's got to be a better way," he said.

"It had taken me hundreds of years to find this one," she said. "You and I will both agree that you do not have that luxury. Therefore, learn to sit with your suffering."

She pushed him in. Actually _pushed _him.

He staggered forward two steps into the shadows and just stood there, gasping. This time was no less terrible than the first. This time he could actually _feel _it happening; the magic was leaving him, flowing out of his eyes, his voice, his fingers, the back of his head, the soft place beneath his breastbone. His strength was leaving him too; in a moment his knees would buckle and send him spilling to the ground. He felt as if he had Apparated to the bottom of the ocean. Of course, this wasn't true; he could still breathe, but it was the closest approximation he had for this feeling of pressure and of drowning in the open air.

Harry could not imagine putting anyone through this. He could not imagine wishing such a fate on Malfoy. It would be kinder to kill him, to turn him into a ferret and have Buckbeak swallow him whole. Anything but this terrible sensation of being slowly extinguished, of turning into nothing.

He fell backwards, but a pair of hands caught his shoulders and held him upright.

"Calm your heart, Harry," whispered Dahlia. Her voice sounded like it was coming from the other end of a tunnel, though she stood right behind him. "_Treibhdhireas."_

Out of habit, Harry took a deep breath. It helped. A little.

"From birth you have been used to the sensation of magic," she said. "This weakness you feel, this dread that fills you, are consequences of having lived with magic for so long. When it leaves, you feel as though you are nothing. Is this not true?"

"Yes," gasped Harry.

"But you are not nothing, are you, Harry? Even if you have no magic. Even if you have no power. You are not nothing."

She lifted him bodily into her arms and bore him deeper into the grove. He could see his hands—his skin was like hers now, corpse-white and cold as the rain.

"Let me out," he groaned.

"Breathe, Harry," she said, cradling him closer. "As children breathe. One draw of air after another. Draw your breath, let it fill you, then let it go. If you horde, you fall sick and eventually die. This is true for all things, this is the secret of life.

"When you are given power, give back. It is the weak man that clings to power for fear of losing it. And only the weak become Dark Lords."

She set him down, sitting with his back against a tree, and sat across from him beneath its neighbor. And for a long time, they shared silence.

Harry let his head loll forward and his chin touch his chest. All the magic had been squeezed out of him. He was utterly empty, lying against his tree like a stringless puppet. He could not move on his own, could not even stand up. All he could do was what came naturally to him, and that was to breathe.

And so he did, one deep breath after another, minute after minute, hour after hour.

At first he thought he imagined the ache easing, but after several hours Harry found he could lift his head. Everything looked hazy and out-of-focus, but he could see where Dahlia was sitting, legs crossed beneath her crimson robe. Sounds from outside the grove had that same faraway quality as Dahlia's voice; Harry found he could miss them if he didn't concentrate. It made him feel completely isolated.

After a day, he found he could twitch his fingers.

Later on, his vision improved, and he could shift his shoulders and get himself to sit higher against the tree, and by mid-afternoon he could move his knees closer to his body. _By tomorrow_, he promised himself, _I'm getting out, even if I have to crawl_.

But then he saw how strangely time ran in this place. Beyond the circle of trees the flowers billowed as slowly as seaweeds, and he could stare for untold years at a single flying petal that seemed suspended in the breeze. But when he closed his eyes at daybreak, it would be dusk when he opened them. Every moment seemed like forever, but it was a forever that was constantly slipping away.

He could not stay here. He longed to step into the bright, brimming sunlight, to smell the free air and feel the grass beneath him. But by seventh day of his stay, Harry forgot all about leaving.

It began with a leaf falling from a high branch of his tree. For want of anything to do, his eyes tracked the spiral of its fall along the edge of the grove. As he watched, Harry noticed something strange. The leaf's path took it in and out of the grove in a cyclical fashion, and each time it entered and left, it seemed completely different.

Outside of the grove, the leaf seemed to be _shining_. Indeed, a silver afterimage trailed its descent. It looked almost electric, glowing with purpose and life. As Harry watched, filled with wonder and confusion, it caught a sunbeam and a dewdrop flashed like lightning. Harry felt a sudden need to take hold of that latent silver glow, to form it into something new, something wonderful, something no one had ever seen before.

Instead, he sat where he was and watched as the leaf fell into the shadow of the grove. The shining vanished, and the leaf seemed leeched of life. It was colorless and hollow, no different from the black bark of the trees and the grass beneath him.

When the leaf cycled back into the sun, the silver lining returned.

Harry blinked and gazed hard at the world outside the heart of the Crystal. How could he not have noticed it after all this time? Everything seemed more solid, more real than when he last looked, in the same way painted objects would look more real when one applied shadows. And that faint shining was everywhere: on the soil, the flowers, the far mountains, the sunlight and the wind. And he soon realized what he was looking at.

"Magic," he whispered.

"As _aether_," Dahlia whispered back. "Now…look at the stones."

Harry turned his head in their direction, and drew a sharp breath.

The circle of round stones that Dahlia had enchanted still glowed where they were, but not merely with the electric blue of a clear sky. It was as if Dahlia had woven the aurora into their forms, and the colors spun and flowed in little eddies and spirals. The stones had come alive, and Harry could almost hear the movement of magic, the sub-audible humming of intrinsic power.

Harry felt his eyes prickle with tears. "_Numen,_" he whispered. His heart felt as if it were overflowing. Here, in this shelter away from magic, he could see magic in its entirety, and he had never seen anything more beautiful.

He did not know how long he sat there—days, perhaps—watching the world with new eyes. He only gathered much later that the sky had turned and a full moon was rising in the deep blue east. Gazing at its pristine whiteness, Harry thought he was seeing it for the first time. _Aether _magic streamed down from its round body in waves and beams, and everything it touched glittered like spiderwebs after a rain.

"Look upon the moon, Harry," said Dahlia. "The flow of the tide, the march of the seasons, the werewolf's blood—all these things are bound to her will. Yet she neither moves nor speaks. She gives not a single command. She simply _is_.

"So should you be, Harry. What lies within you is as immortal as the moon. If you would seek greatness, seek to be exactly who you are, at all times, in all choices."

Harry amazed himself by standing up. Though he still felt the absence of magic keenly on his body, like frost that wouldn't thaw, it no longer bothered him. He took one faltering step forward, then another, and another, until he stood at the edge of the Crystal's heart. He took a deep breath and stepped out of the bubble of nothing, back into the world of magic.

The change came gradually. Magic seeped back into his body, and the pleasure of it amazed him. It was like finding something you thought you'd lost for good after many years, like the skill of biking or swimming. His senses returned; sounds no longer had a faraway quality, and his skin no longer looked white nor felt numb.

The entire meadow was aflood in moonlight, and the air was still and sweet. He could still see _aether,_ but it was harder outside of the grove; he had to look closely for that elusive brilliance. Maybe because it was now too close for him to see. As for _numen_…

He turned and walked over to the circle of stones. They still glowed with that iridescent blue light, but Harry found he could still see the muted aurora, rippling just beneath the surface of the image. It looked somehow solid to him, close enough to touch. He felt he could make that spinning slow down, come to rest, if he so wanted.

Slowly, aware of the weight of Dahlia's gaze on him, Harry took a deep breath and saw in his mind the aurora in the stones easing down into a pale silver afterimage.

The blue glow faded away, and the stones lay slumbering near his feet.

He had done it. Harry stared at them with wide eyes, before spinning around to face his mentor.

"_I did it!_" he shouted, fists raised. _"I changed it back to aether!"_

Dahlia's eyes marked him where she sat; her gaze was amused, but her smile mirrored his pride. "Well done," she called to him. "What more can I teach you now?"

"What do you mean?" he said, still smiling. "Of course there's more! I've got to learn it all! What about controlling the flow of magic?"

"You can learn on your own from now onward," she replied. "The form matters not when the principle is the same: your heart as the moon, and magic as the tide. It will not serve you to sit at my feet forever. "

His joy faded a little and he frowned at her.

"Maybe you're right," he said, starting forward. "But even if I become a master at this, there's still one more thing I want to learn from you.

"I want to know your story."

The look of surprise on her face vanished as quickly as it came. "Why, Harry? There is nothing in my past that may help you."

He shook his head. "It doesn't matter if it can't help me. I spent all this time here with you and I never took the time to get to know you. I think there's more to you than what the stories say about you. I want to know about you and Volarius. I want to know how you became what you are. I want to understand." He stepped back into the heart of the Crystal, gasping at the sudden chill on his soul, and wobbled forward her to plunk down beside her. "Would you tell me your story?"

He had to wait a long time for Dahlia to speak again, long enough for the moon to pass her zenith and start her descent into the west. But when Dahlia did speak, it was to tell her tale.

"Before Volarius, there once lived a boy named Arlen, and before there was Dahlia, there was once a girl named Eirin."

_To be continued_

_1. Dante wrote in The Inferno that the deepest circle of hell is a lake of ice where all feelings froze. Harry goes through something similar this time round in the hinterlands, I guess as a kind of self-condemnation. By now, you'd have guessed that everything we see in that abysmal place is simply something we do to ourselves. From that perspective, I think one would do well over time by learning more about one's self and taking responsibility for one's self. Of course, it's possible that one person may go through the hinterlands without coming across a single illusion. Whoever that person is should get out and go about saving the world._

_2. The word "treibhdhireas" is Celtic for "sincerity."_

_3. "Demon? Hero?" asked the dove. " What did it do?"_

_"When I saw it for the first time," said the tree, " I was young and thin. I had fewer braches then._

_In those days, humans often battled against each other._

_Rathgrith not only conjured a tempest that raged for seventy days, but also rained hailstones from above. Trees and grass perished and nothing was left for humans and animals to live on. Consequently, the soil was in ruins. All living things died one after another. My friends, four-legged beasts, humans and let alone birds like you—everything in this land was deprived of breath._

_In the end, Rathgrith murdered none other than itself. Shortly after, this land turned to nothingness."_

_-- "A Blue Dove for the Princess" by Ellinor Graun_

_4. Next: Children of Aspen and Thorn. Promise Stone. The dark man. Demon of Rathgrith. The edge of the hinterlands. Farewell and reunion._

_Chapter XXVII: "Dahlia"_


	28. Dahlia

**The Phoenix and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

_**Warning:** _This chapter depicts violence and mature situations.

**Chapter XXVII: Dahlia**

In my language, the name "Eirin" means "peace."

My mother named me, as the mothers of my clan were wont to do in those days. They knew the power of names, and it was their hope that their children would spend their lives living up to them.

My clan lived in a lush land cupped by a wide valley, with the sea as our doorstep and an oak forest as our garden. We were few in number, and fewer still our wizards. Healing was our great talent. We valued longevity, children, the preservation of life. Our _Non _were skilled in midwifery and herbs, and our wizards could soothe fevers and close wounds with their hands. We possessed no wands or staves. Such things were beyond us. Our magic remained potent for as long as we stayed in our homeland.

I can no longer recall the name of my clan, nor why others sometimes refer to us as the people of Aspen and Thorn. Those I have lost to the years. What I have are pieces of memory, but sometimes they flash like shards of glass in the sun.

I remember my mother's soft hand leading me through a maze of oak and beech, and the last sunbeams leaving bright patterns on the leaf-strewn ground. I remember sitting on my father's shoulders and watching our Druid Mother sing a paean to the moonrise. I remember birdsong at morning, the scent of the sea at eventide. I remember my mother and father waving goodbye to me on their journey to cure a neighboring clan's plague. I remember the Druid Mother's kind smile as she led me by my hand to her hut. I remember warm nights by her fire, and calm days washing our clothes by the river. I remember the pale beach where I wandered, fine sand slipping between my toes, and the white mane of the waves crashing on the shore. I remember the creaking cart that brought home the wrapped corpses of my parents, and the driver muttering of lawless men in a lawless time. I remember watching my mother's delicate, pale hand as it lay outside the cloth, waiting for it to beckon for me to come to her.

I remember, too, a boy of my age, who helped gather wood for the funeral pyre. He was the only son of my mother's cousin. He stood quietly by my side as we watched the black smoke rising to the dull sky, and listened as the Druid Mother prayed for the repose of the dead. His eyes. His eyes were the color of turquoise and pine. His name was Arlen, and it meant "promise."

From then on he would come to me everyday, and everyday I would find new reasons to laugh.

Of the two of us, Arlen was the clever one, the one in love with learning. He learned foreign languages quickly, could read lips and communicate with hand gestures. He could read the weather from the cry of the gull and the color of the sunrise, and weave nets from spider silk and mermaid hair. He would fashion games and toys and riddles, and find us new places to explore. Once he led me up a rocky cliff to watch eaglets hatch in their nest—he knew when, to the day.

And I…I was the one who manifested magic the most, whether I wanted to or not. My abilities were beyond the ken of my clan, and they frightened us. Things would move without my touching them, water would flow in reverse, stones from nowhere would rain down on the roof of my house. I could turn words into flame, or snow, or sleet. I could bid my shadow change shape or walk away from me and return, though it would sometimes be unruly, breaking pots and playing pranks on others.

But it would never do so when Arlen was near.

His nearness comforted me. There were times when I would wake in the dark, shrieking from some nameless terror, but I would think of his hand in mine, and I would feel safe.

With the loss of my parents, we became the hope of the clan, the ones who would succeed our Druid Mother and lead us into years of prosperity. The people loved us both and called us their blessings. But perhaps they loved Arlen more, for they had no reason to fear him.

Arlen never feared me. Thus, _I _loved him the most.

On my fourteenth summer, we sat together one night and watched the moonlight form a silver road on the sea, then he took my hand in his, and we both knew, without sharing words, that we wanted only each other.

Arlen found his joy in making me feel joy, and he was always finding new ways to do so. Had I but the words, I would have bid him not to try so hard, because being near him was enough.

Yet he persisted, and one midsummer day he outdid himself.

He lowered himself down into the old dry well in the middle of the village and stayed within for hours. I looked down into the blackness and begged him to come out, but he would refuse, telling me to be patient. He emerged late in the afternoon, black with grime and dust, and showed me a dark stone the size of a gull egg. He would give it to me again 3 days later, after he had cut and polished it to a keen shine and turned it into a necklace.

"This," he said to me, "is my Promise Stone. Keep it as your own, as a sign that I have bound myself to you. Let this mean that I shall never abandon you or let you come to harm, and in your time of need I will be at your side. You have my heart, and it is yours for as long as love lasts."

He smiled at my tears, and I came into his arms, and neither of us spoke for a long time. We had our Promise Stone. It was the sign of our bond. It was the bringer of our doom.

* * *

The year I turned 16 summers old, two druids visited my clan. I remember them well. 

The first was Aloran the All-Father, old and white, the wisest of all the Great Druids. The second was Manoch Silvermane, known also as Manoch the Hooded, Stormlord, Giantbane, and many other titles, for he collected them as a dragon hoarded gold.

They carried staves that marked them as members of the Circle of Nine, the strongest and most powerful druids of the land. As the Circle they had each sworn a mighty oath to protect their clans, but they did not always agree on what protection meant, or who to be protected from. Often would they plot against each other. Only Aloran could keep the peace, and even he was not always successful.

We welcomed them as befitting their rank and the Druid Mother held a banquet in their honor. It was there that they revealed the purpose of their visit.

Aloran spoke of a potential threat from across the sea—the Norsemen. Even now, he said, the powers of the Viking mages outpace our own, for they were masters of ice and storms. The increasing number of Norse raids was a harbinger of our fate—if we did not find a way to match their power, we would soon face annihilation.

Thus the Circle called for a quest. A young male wizard from each clan will sail to Rome to study ways of magic. In all the world, the Romans had mightiest of wizards, enough power to match those of the Norsemen. We must learn from them, to ensure that we will not fall behind and eventually be conquered. Apart from sending one our own, our tiny village shall be the point of departure.

It would be a long stay, he said. It would at least take four years before these boys could return. But they would come home as men—more, as saviors and heroes, for their knowledge would enrich the clans and ensure that our way of life would long endure.

All eyes fell on Arlen.

He said nothing, only nodded. His own gaze was muted and sad, and when he looked at me, I felt as if I had been cleaved in two. I could not have known him better had we been born from a single womb, and at that moment, we shared the same despair.

The other druid, Manoch, spoke little throughout the meal, but when I went to serve him wine, his eyes locked onto the jewel that hung from my neck, then onto my face.

"Child," he said, gesturing at the stone, "where did you get that?"

"It is a gift from my cousin, Great One," said I.

"A gift?" Manoch mused out loud. "I would learn how your cousin came by such a prize. It certainly must cost a great fortune, and thus have a worthy tale attached."

At the Druid Mother's prodding, Arlen told of how he explored the dry well at the heart of our land, but left out the reason for giving me the stone. Manoch listened, his sharp face bereft of expression, and complimented Arlen for his cleverness.

As the druids were leaving the banquet hall for their quarters, Manoch stopped at the doorway and beckoned to me. From his robes he drew forth a lacquered box, which he opened with a silver key. Inside were two tiny glass dancers, and they twirled together to crystalline music and floating globes of light that seemed like the ghosts of fireflies.

I watched it, slack-jawed, as he put it in my hands, and nearly did not catch his whispered words. "This shall be yours, if you would but give me your necklace."

I looked at him then, at his rigid, lined face, at his eyes that caught not a flicker of light from the box. Then I handed his gift back to him and shook my head. Suddenly, I was afraid of him.

He shut the lid and put it back in his pocket. "Very well," he said, flashing a smile that seemed like glass. And he went to bed.

That night I had dark dreams. I dreamt of smoke and flame, and of a shadow that smiled at me with sharp teeth and green, glowing eyes. I woke up gasping, and tried to think of Arlen. But the thought of him leaving me left me with no comfort.

The druids stayed a fortnight, enough time for young wizards from other clans to arrive at our village. The time for Arlen's leave-taking drew near.

I came to him one last time on the night of his departure.

"I am returning this to you," I said, offering him his Promise Stone.

His hand did not rise to take it. "Why?"

"I wish to release you from your vow," I replied. "Tomorrow you take the wave, and you will be away a long time. It may be that, someday, you would choose Rome for your land, another woman for your wife. I do not want to hold you to a word you will regret keeping."

"Do you think so little of me that you feel I would change my mind?" he asked. "Do you think so little of yourself that you feel I will not want to come back to you?"

"Neither of us can outwit the fates," said I. "I do not want to make you unhappy."

"You are asking me to forget you. Do you think that makes me happy?"

I shook my head, unable to speak.

He drew me into his arms. "If I would choose another home, I would not be a child of Aspen and Thorn. If I would choose another wife, I would cease to be Arlen. You have my heart, Eirin. I will come back for you."

I clung to him, and for the rest of that night we lay together, tasting the pain and sweetness of what we knew of love. We talked of our life to come, of the children we would have, of the names we would give them. He kissed me and hummed the songs we knew from our youth. I rested in his arms and listened. Already I felt hollow. Already my tears cried out for a voice.

The next day, he boarded the ship that would bear him and his companions across the sea. Aloran promised to send messengers each year, to bear news of their progress. The Druid Mother blessed them one last time, bidding them not to look back, and we swallowed our tears as they cast off. They all looked back, every one, and none of us on the shore left until they had vanished into the distance.

We would not see each other again for a very long time. But I would behold his eyes again many months later, when our son was born.

I named him Anwell, meaning "the beloved."

* * *

I will pause a moment to recollect. Most of my memories here are a little clouded. One day seeping into the other like dye mixing in a wash. 

Yes, it is coming back now.

Manoch wandering the edges of my village the day before he left, his dark eyes searching the ground and the stone cliffs. His muffled argument with Aloran in their hut, and the word he spoke with undisguised greed—_amaranthium_. Their hasty departure at daybreak. And, most of all, the figment in my head, a dark shape with flaming green eyes, entering the old dry well and leaving the same way, its hand closed over something heavy and dark.

If I had cared more, I would have thought more of these things I had seen, but I did not. I had my child, a little snip of myself and my beloved, who had my hair but his father's eyes. I never tired of looking at him, and for the first time I took joy in making someone else laugh. Day after day, I would sit by the shore with him on my lap and my eyes on the horizon, dreaming of the time when Arlen would return, and my happiness would be complete.

The one letter I received from him, borne several months later by the returning ship, was long and hectic in word. He filled it with the wonders of Rome—stone roads, great marble buildings, hundreds of white statues of emperors and gods. He told me of how humbled he felt, standing within the vast Academy of Magic and its subterranean library carved in stone. He regaled me with tales of Rome as the great hub of the wizarding world. Travelers of all creeds and races—men, djinn, the fair folk, the mer—came to drink of the city's riches and knowledge and beauty.

If I could but open a window to where he was, I'd have shown him the joy that awaited him home.

I readied a reply and waited for the day the ship would take to sea. But the ship would not sail. They had received instructions from the Circle of Nine not to do so.

Our Druid leaders had chosen another means of confronting the Viking threat.

Days later an emissary came from the Circle, bearing the strangest, most outrageous of demands: that our entire clan surrender our lands to the council, in the name of preserving the peace.

_Leave our lands. _My tribesmen looked at each other in confusion and dismay. What could this mean? What purpose would exile form our homes serve? How would rendering an entire clan homeless be a way of preserving the peace?

The Druid Mother said such to the emissary, who either could not or would not answer her. Instead he said he would relay these concerns to the Circle, only to return the next month with the same terse orders. Again we questioned it, and again we were rebuffed. For months we played this game, demanding answers and getting none, until at last a letter came from great Aloran himself. This time it was an open plea, that for the benefit of all the tribes, it would be best to do as the council wishes. It had been a long, hard debate among them, but it was decided that the resources of our land would play a vital part in the struggle. In the end, the good of the many outweighed the needs of the few.

Somewhere in all this, it came to me what the Druids truly wanted. Not our land precisely, but what lay beneath it. Amaranthium. I did not know what it meant, but for some reason known only to the Druids, they coveted the crystals Arlen had found in the old well. None more so than Manoch. If there was anyone in a position to poison the rest of the Circle into doing the unthinkable, it was him.

I told all this to my Druid Mother, and my words made her even more resolute. We would not give up our land to be dug up and despoiled, nor would we bequeath it to those who would betray to obtain it. If it meant going against the wishes of the Circle, then that was our path.

With each month the situation worsened. We never heard from Aloran again. This time, it was Manoch who spoke. His words had all the courtesy and geniality of a king offering pardon. He reminded us of a young man studying abroad, who by now must be longing for home. Suppose we were never to see him again? Suppose the boat would not come back for him? Or suppose some misfortune should befall him? A freak storm at sea, a murderous thief, a falling beam—anything could happen, could it not?

I had thought that, with no reply from me and no ship coming to call on them, Arlen and his companions would surely suspect something was wrong. And Arlen was clever enough to find a way to return without help. He could come home if he wanted to, at anytime. But a whole year had come and gone, without a word from him.

Still, we believed in Arlen to the last. We would not have him threatened. We held one final gathering and made up our minds to try and expose the corruption of the Druids to the other clans. We did not know who would aid us, for nearly every clan had sworn allegiance to one of the Circle. Perhaps they would come to our side, perhaps not. But we had no choice but to try.

The next morning, I was woken by the scent of smoke.

As I saw the black tendrils began curling through the thatched roof of my home, as I rushed to the window to hear the first screams of the dying, I still could not quite believe that my nightmare had come to life. Not the Vikings, I thought. Not here, not now.

But the men who attacked us came not on longboats but on horses, not from the sea but from the woods. Everywhere I looked, the brigands were putting houses to the torch and my kinsmen to the sword. Fire roared though our homes, blotting out the sky with smoke. Our pearl beach ran red with blood.

Filled with horror, I ran out into the road. There was a man at my feet dying from a wound gaping on his chest. I dropped to my knees and touched him, willing his wound to close. But my fear was too much and my magic failed me. He died beneath my hands.

Someone screamed my name. I turned to see the Druid Mother, my son cradled in her arms, running towards me. She was ordering me take the child and flee to the hills. Behind her, tall flames were licking at the side of our house.

What happened next, I would see in my nightmares for centuries to come.

Two horse men thundered from behind my house. They cut off the Druid Mother's escape and slipped off their saddles. One of them grabbed her. The other one tore my child from her arms.

I sprinted towards them, shouting for them to stop. A dagger flashed in the hand of the one who held the Druid Mother and he drove it deep into her stomach. I saw his hand turn red, I saw her mouth form the black circle of a silent scream.

The other man…hurled my son back into the burning house.

Something died within me, something human, and it went as quickly and irrevocably as a candle flame in a winter gust. I remember screaming things that did not sound like words, that seemed like the cry of a banshee. The laughter of the two brigands died as they fell to the ground in agony, their hands clapped over their ears. I would have kept on screaming if it meant it would rend their minds to shreds.

But a dark shadow fell from behind me and something heavy crashed into the back of my head. My vision went red. My thoughts turned to pain, then they turned to nothing.

When next I opened my eyes, I was lying in a covered cart. My feet and hands were clasped in cold iron, my mouth bound by a filthy rag. The Stone around my neck was gone. Another cart trailing behind bore my weeping clan sisters, and all around I could hear the victory song of our captors. I was a prisoner, soon to be slave.

Every night, the men would come for us. Their words were cruel—I will not repeat them here—but their deeds were crueler. It was as if they never knew mothers, sisters, or daughters. But whatever they did to me seemed to matter little. My son. My beloved little son was dead. I would never again see his sweet face or hear his laughter. I would never feel his breath on my cheek or his tiny hands curling around mine. My grief tore a hole through me that I could only fill with tears, but though my tears were beyond numbering, they were never enough.

Were there no gods? Was there no justice? Where was my Arlen, whom I had given my heart and my being entire? Where was my Promise-Keeper?

I did not know how long the journey lasted. My limbs grew numb from disuse, such that I could no longer feel even the coarseness of my captor's hands. I caught a fever. The women could do little for me, for our captors would not deign to give us herbs nor would they loose my bonds for fear of my magic.

During the day my body burned, at night it froze. It soon came to me that I was going to die.

But there was another, stronger part that would not allow it. It would not end like this. The Circle, those Druids, they were true enemies. No brigands would dare destroy an entire clan without their sanction. They had taken away everything I had loved. I would not die until I have made them suffer as I have suffered, until we had all drunk from this same bitter cup of agony.

On the night I thought this, I sensed that the lone guard beside my cart had fallen asleep. Without my thinking, my shadow crept toward him and took the keys from his belt. I freed my limbs and crawled out of the cart. Dusk had fallen. The brigands sat around the campfire, busy with bedding down.

I walked to a nearby rise, turned to face the camp again, and said, "_Burn_."

The campfire jetted to life like the breath of a woken dragon. It leapt at the men around it, and the screaming began. I sat on the rise, watching as men ran around like little tufts of flaming hay caught in a draft, and did naught but smile. They burned as my child had burned. Before long my strength failed me, and I blacked out on the grass.

The sun was high when I woke. The air was filled with the sound of wings and cawing. Not very far from me lay a dead woman—one of my clan sisters, burned beyond recognition. More corpses littered the camp area. No one had survived. I lay on my side, watching as the dark shadows of crows descended to feast.

I did not mourn them—I envied them, with all my heart. Their fate was so much easier. I myself could not die, not yet.

But I was at the end of my strength. The fever was taking me. I could only lie where I was and watch as the crows feasted. This, I thought, was the measure of my life: I was not strong enough to protect myself. I was not strong enough to save my son. I was not strong enough even to seek revenge.

The flutter of black wings filled my ears. The Druid Mother, my son, Arlen…their faces whirled before me, always beyond my reach. I thought I heard Anwell crying for me. I saw a black plume rising in the east and a stone that shone like a fallen star. I saw a red moonrise and my mother's dead hand beckoning. I closed my eyes.

Night had fallen when I opened them again. I was not sure what had woken me. I looked up, and beheld a shadow bending down, regarding me with eyes like burning brimstone.

"Well met, good lass," said the dark man. "How fortunate you still live, though perhaps more fortunate for me than for you. Do you know me?"

Even in my fevered state I recognized him. He was Death and worse than Death, the shadow that had haunted my nightmares for years. He was tall and slim and youthful, with hair like sunrise and skin the color of bone. His was an unearthly beauty, but it was marred by a smile too cruel, and teeth too sharp.

"I know all about you," he said. "For a time, I played Manoch's spy in your land. It was an interesting game while it lasted. But he would not pay me in the end, so I left his service. I thought to follow your caravan and find some easy prey. But alas, it seems you left many of them…unpalatable."

"Wagnard," said a female voice. More shadows shifted around me, regarded me with eyes that were bright with hunger. "There's naught left here for us to feed on! Will you not share her with us?"

Wagnard's eyes flared green, "SHE'S MINE!" and the shadows wavered and retreated.

Wagnard made a face. "Pardon my wives. I had hoped they would become queens when I first made them, but they've turned into uninteresting women with the single uninteresting ambition of filling their bellies. What a tragic waste. Perhaps they are better off truly dead.

"And what of you, little girl? Would you be better off dead too? Or do you still cling to your flimsy life for a reason?"

I mustered my strength to hiss an answer.

"_Revenge." _

"Ah," he said, eyes gleaming, "now _that _is interesting."

He drew close and whispered, "If you wish it, I will give you all the time you need for your vengeance. You will not know disease or fatigue or pain. You will be a thing of beauty and darkness, and all your enemies will tremble before you. I will give you my blood and my strength, if you would but share my unlife. If you would be my queen."

To be immortal, to have the power to vanquish my foes. It was not something I could turn from. I accepted his offer. He drank my blood and made me drink his, and I became like him.

Can you conceive a nature more abominable than vampirism? Can you imagine what it is like to be caught between life and death, to live solely by feeding on the blood of another human being? That is what the undead do. We consume lives and make others like us. And the thirst for blood is a need blots out the world. If I were to command you to cease breathing, then for a moment you would have a glimpse of that need that, if unanswered, drives us to frenzy and murder.

We cannot not bear children, cannot die except by sun and fire, cannot fall ill for we are ourselves diseased…I became the utter reversal of everything my clan taught me, everything we believed in and chose to live by.

But the Druids…they swore an oath to protect the clans, and Arlen promised to come to me in my time of need. They had each broken their word. I, too, forsook my humanity. I abandoned my name. Wagnard called me Dahlia. Thus was the Cimmerian Sorceress born, from a twine of broken vows.

* * *

Wagnard told me many secrets. 

He confirmed that it was the Circle behind the murder my clan, simply passing off the attack as another Viking raid. More, Wagnard told me that a mining camp now stood where village used to be. It was true that they wanted amaranthium, a substance from no less than the stars themselves. It had been there all along, silently resonating with our magic, making our healing more potent. Imagine what it could do as the core of a wand, as the headpiece of a staff?

He told me one more thing. Manoch's last order for him was to go to Rome and quietly dispose of Arlen. My talented cousin, it seems, had gone far. In only two years he had become a mage of great knowledge and skill. His reknown was such that his teachers had made him an honorary member of their Academy, and had given him the name Volarius. Manoch feared that once Volarius found out what happened to his clan, he would return and exact vengeance. Wagnard pretended to accept his request, before abandoning the Druid to go his own way.

This news of Arlen mattered little to me at the time. Let him stay in his beloved Rome. I myself would be a mage of reknown, for entirely different reasons.

I spent the next five years with Wagnard and his brood, at once his student, his companion, his servant, and his sport. I was one of them, but not like them. I was a mage and vampire both, and there were moments when my need for revenge surpassed even that maddening thirst for blood. My aim was simple: to find a way to tie my magic to my vampiric nature. That would be my key to power.

Unlike his wives, Wagnard gave me free reign to pursue my quest for vengeance. It amused him to see such single-minded fervor. He gave me the dungeon of his castle, and there I spent most of my hours, poring over as many magical tomes and scrolls that I could gather. I left only when I absolutely must. I kept with me vials of blood, enchanted to keep its contents fresh, so I did not have to waste much time hunting.

In those years, I discovered the depths that magic could plunge. I rooted out the secrets of daemons and djinn, of the dead and the damned. I performed terrible rituals and sacrifices. I spilled innocent blood. And in the end, I succeeded. I mastered a dark and terrible skill called Necropotence, which allowed me to steal a wizard's magical power by taking his blood.

And still, I realized this was not enough. I needed not only magic but also the power of fear and superstition. If I had that, I could kill a man from within, bring my enemies to their knees without a single word. Thus, I cut off my bat wings with a knife and used magic to grow the wings of a great crow. With this, I had taken the image of the being even the mighty Druids feared—the goddess Morrígan, the Lady of Crows, She Who Chooses the Slain.

My end was clear in my mind. I would forge this world in such way that nothing of mine would ever be taken from me again.

It was time to deal the first blow.

* * *

His name was Belenus and he was the least of the Nine, weak in magic and character. He would be my test, and I deemed him easy prey. To Wagnard's ire, I confronted Belenus face-to-face one night in the heart of the Druid's own stronghold. 

I nearly did not survive. He possessed an amaranthium wand, and before its power even the Dark Magic I had learned was merely grist for the mill. I would have met my end, trapped in a circle of flame, had Wagnard not attacked Belenus from behind, grabbing him by his neck. I leaped through the fire and sank my teeth into my enemy's veins, drawing his strength into me as he died. Then I snapped his wand and burned down his castle ere his blood could dry on my face.

The experience made me stronger, but even more importantly, it taught me a valuable lesson. I would never let my opponents have an advantage over me again. I would take every measure needed to ensure victory, even if it meant not working alone.

For the next six months, I stayed in the shadows. I was patient; the years do not matter to the undead. I watched and waited as the Circle fell into chaos, each Druid accusing the other of their comrade's murder. I began building an army, capturing men and turning them into vampiric servants. When the armies of the Circle clashed, I took their recent dead and resurrected them into mindless thralls. I recruited wights and banshees and many other abominations, promising them prey and plunder. And when my army surged in number and the turmoil reached its cusp, I struck once again.

I chose Caderyn, Lord of Mounthaven. I accosted him one night as he was on the road home with his kinsmen. They thought I was a fellow traveler, until they spied the dark shape of my wings by the light of my lantern. By then it was too late.

My minions charged from the shadows and slaughtered his men. I lured Caderyn himself into a misty marsh. He followed the light of my lantern willingly, taking confidence in the power his amaranthium wand. He did not know that he had only been following a crow, and when he was lost in the mist, I appeared behind him and stabbed his back with my spear. Then I supped on him and added his strength to mine.

On his robe I left a message.

"_Summer without flowers,_

_kine without milk,_

_women without modesty,_

_men without valour;_

_captives without a king,_

_woods without mast,_

_sea without produce."_

This was my challenge to the Druids, what I would make of the world if they failed to defeat me.

* * *

Finally it dawned on the broken Circle that their assassin came from beyond their ranks. Alliances were hastily formed, but by then my army was swarming all over the land, pillaging their villages and destroying their resources. I wrecked such havoc that even the Vikings feared to come, saying the land now belonged the Demon of the North Sea. I had isolated the Druids from the rest of the world. 

I smashed every amaranthium wand I could find, and grew strong on the blood of mages I captured. And when I was sure of my hold on the land, I took from the Druids the precious mining camp, cutting off their supply of amaranthium.

In their panic the Circle sent a hastily-assembled army, made up of mostly young, untrained men, to take back the mines. They never made it there. While they were still far, I personally led my forces out and attacked their camp in the night. At the close of the battle, I stepped out to the front lines and watched as their army fled and left me with their dead. Then I heard someone shout my old name.

_He _came running towards me from the retreating army. I knew his face at once. He wielded a wand now, and he lashed out and scattered my minions as they tried to stop him.

So, this was Volarius. After many years away from the land of his birth, he had finally returned.

I signaled for my forces to let him approach. He came towards me in the moonlight, his eyes wide and disbelieving at my appearance. Here now, was my great cousin, who had risen so high while I had fallen so far. As I watched him, I felt hatred blossom in my heart. Why now? I wanted to ask. What did he return for, now that everything precious to us was so much ash and dust?

But even as I hated him, I wanted him. He was even more beautiful than I remembered, tall and strong and slender. I could feel my fangs lengthening in lust. I wanted to taste his blood. I wanted to break him. I wanted to make him mine.

He must have sensed this, for he came no closer. "Eirin," he whispered, and there was longing in his voice.

"Not Eirin," I replied. "Not anymore."

"I don't understand. Why…?"

"There is little to understand. The Nine tried to destroy me. It is only just that I destroy them. But why do I find you on their side?"

"I fight to free this land. I fight for justice."

I laughed at this. "Freedom? Justice? For whom, I ask you? Your clan is gone, and the Druids you fight for are the ones who have taken it. What of my justice, Volarius? Because of them, you are the last child of Aspen and Thorn."

"No!" He shook his head violently. "You and me together, Eirin. Do you not remember? You were human. You loved and knew love. We were pledged. Please—you must remember!"

"I do remember our love." I smiled at him, arms open in invitation. "We can be together for all time. All that was lost can be yet again, if you would but come to me. Come, let me kiss you."

He made not a move. I let my arms drop and scowled.

"When they captured me, I thought of you. When they hurt me, I thought of you. Day by day I remembered your words and your face, until the thinking itself became a torture. Still you did not come. And now you turn your back on me again. You are as false as the name you abandoned."

He dropped his eyes. "I have wronged you," he said. "I let the world blind me with promises of glory, I stayed away for too long. If I could, I would unmake all that has happened. I know you cannot forgive me, my love, but please, this is not justice! This is senseless slaughter! You must show mercy—"

"Mercy?" I asked. I felt fury rise inside of me, the need to ravage and destroy. I was sure I would kill him. "_Mercy?_ They put our village to the torch and stained the shore with our blood. They have taken our families and our home. They have taken you from me. I would not give them mercy even if my dead heart had any left to give. They killed your Eirin, mageling. No, they did more than kill her. _They killed her son._"

It was the cruelest thing I had ever done to him, and I did it without thinking. He fell to his knees. His face was blank and white as slate, his eyes full of denial. And then his face broke with grief when he met the truth in my eyes. We had betrayed our names, we had betrayed each other. But here and again, we shared the same despair. And as he knelt there weeping, I saw in his face the boy I had loved and lost those many years ago.

This, I suppose, was what stayed my hand. I reasoned that Death would take him soon enough. I left him there, weeping on the battlefield, and returned to my camp.

* * *

My actions filled Wagnard with unholy joy. Finally he could boast to having created something lasting, a legend that would echo through the centuries. I was his masterpiece. He forgot his wives and became besotted with me, never once realizing that he was now my creature. 

And I, I threw myself into my war. I thought there was nothing left in the world to stop me, and nothing left in me that would want to stop.

Three Druids, Damas, Tyrn, and Ruadhiri, formed an alliance in hopes of defeating me. They accosted me one evening on the summit of Mt. Alaunos, and there they tested my power, and that is why today, no matter what map you consult, you will not find Mt. Alaunos.

Then came Cernunnos and Kyndeyrn. On the eve of battle, Cernunnos thinking himself wise, killed his ally with a curse from behind. Then he came to me and offered Kyndeyrn as a gift and himself as my servant.

I said to him, "I have an army of the dead. All my servants are dead. I myself am dead. If you would share my power, then share my fate." I struck him down, consumed his blood, and added him to my army.

Then I came for Manoch the Hooded, and he was the cleverest of them all. Long before we met he removed his soul from his body and hid it in a glass seed, which he kept in a dove, which he hid in a fox, which lived in an ironwood tree, in a forest guarded by his Centaur allies. For as long as his soul was safe, he could not die.

I came to that forest, and when the Centaurs refused to divulge the location of the tree, I fought and killed them, and threatened their chieftain with the death of his children. He led me to the tree, and I made Wagnard cut it down with an axe of orichalcum. The fox inside fled and I killed it with my spear. The dove flew from the fox's mouth and shot into the sky, hiding among the clouds. Thus I flew to a mountaintop and conjured up a great hailstorm. Rivers flooded, livestock starved, many perished, and after a few days, the dove fell dead from the heavens. I plucked the glass seed from its body and went to confront Manoch.

I showed him the seed, then crushed it in my hand. Rather than face me, Manoch impaled himself on his own sword. As he lay dying, I showed him the real glass seed, untouched, in my other hand, and watched despair cloud over his eyes.

I touched his lifeblood with my fingers, and drew an unholy sign on him, and said, "Manoch, you will not die, nor will you live. You will never know warmth or rest again. You will wander for all time, a blind, hooded, hollow thing. People shall run at the sight of you, for your presence shall leech them of all hope and joy. You shall feed on their souls to fill your emptiness, but you never will be sated. You will have offspring but take no delight in them, for they will be like you in all ways. You will have no dreams, no fears, no salvation. The only thing left shall be your hunger, and like me, you shall be hungry forever."

And the shade of Manoch Silvermane rose and drifted away, and ever after he and his kin haunted the darkest, most desolate places of the land. You know of them. You call them Dementors, or call them not at all.

Thus did the Cimmerian Sorceress deal with her enemies.

* * *

At last, at last I came for Aloran, most beloved of the Nine. I did not need to, for he posed no threat. But he was still of the Circle, and I could not slake my thirst for vengeance any more than I could my thirst for blood. 

Though he gave not an order, many came with swords and maces and lances to defend him in Stonehenge, where he made his last stand. Some of the men had yet to grow beards, some had the color of winter on their hair. At the sight, I briefly wondered how one man who could inspire such burning loyalty in his people could also find it in himself to betray them.

I slaughtered them to the last man. Then I entered Stonehenge and smote the All-Father, the last of the Patriarchs. The Circle was broken, the Great Druids gone. We would never see their like again.

And there, at the cusp of my victory, Volarius returned.

You have witnessed our battle. He came not with wand or weapon, but with our Promise Stone. He had found it after many years of searching, and turned it into something far greater. He took my power away and drew me into his Crystal Cage.

And that is how I came to be here.

For untold years, I stood not in sunlight but in the dream of sunlight, I walked not on shores but the idea of shores. I did not hunger for blood, for I no longer possessed a body. I was alone with my thoughts and the remains of my heart.

I squandered my first years in a fruitless battle against the Cage itself. The power I had acquired counted for nothing—my magic shattered these lands, but in an instant after I turned they would become as they were. I wandered from place to place, and though I rise to the heavens or fly across the sea, I would always come to the mists of the hinterlands. And in that place, I confronted the best and worst of myself.

I wanted to go mad. I wanted to die. The Crystal Cage would let me do neither.

Volarius would often appear to visit me, though he would say very little. I turned all my energy into hating and cursing him for his meddling. Other times I would beg him to set me free, or to kill me, whichever he thought kinder. In still others, I would ignore him completely.

But he would only sit quietly beneath a tree, waiting for me to come and sit beside him. This I would not do. I would not surrender to him.

Years of this passed, and he grew older and whiter with each visit. I had spent my time hating him, but the time came when my heart tired of it. At last, I sat beside him.

"What is all this for?" I asked. "Neither of us can undo was has been done. Why not just destroy me, if you hate me so much?"

He said, "I do not hate you. No matter what you have done in the past, no matter what you have become, I cannot find it in myself to hate you. Nor can I find it in myself to leave you as you are. You are a part of me and you will be so forevermore, even beyond this life.

"I could not let you die or be destroyed if it meant you would carry your torment into the grave. I could not bear it if even in death you would know no peace. I built this place so you may have the chance to heal, to find yourself again, without causing further harm to anyone. I built it for you because I want you to be free. Because I love you too much, Eirin, to leave you so condemned."

It was the last time we spoke, for he died soon after he left the Crystal. His words, however, did not. They stayed with me through my long lonely years.

Slowly, slowly, I began to see what he wanted me to see. I learned of the nature of magic. I learned about myself. These led me to Singularity, and I was able to see the world with new eyes. You were able to learn these things in a matter of months, but for me the journey took hundreds of years. There were many things I would not accept. There was so much I could not forgive.

But here, I had nothing but time.

* * *

Dahlia fell quiet at this, and her inward-looking gaze shifted to the boy sitting beside her. 

"Now you know," she said.

"Yeah," he replied, his voice oddly low. The answer was completely inadequate, but what can one say to the teller of such a tale?

He mustered up another question.

"Dahlia, why did you help me? Why did you save my life?"

And she said, "Several years ago, I completed the last trial of the hinterlands. I came to the edge of Cage, touching the Crystal wall. From there I could see the outside world. I saw the bearer of the Crystal, the _Non _from Volarius's line. I could only guess that he had married and raised his own family, and the people I was seeing were now his descendants. I saw your grandmother. I watched the girl who would become your mother grow up. And finally, I met you.

"I do not know why I aided you.

"I do not understand the instinct that led me to save you from death. I only know that you are a descendant of Arlen, that you are a little part of him. You are living proof of my clan's belief that our children survive us, that nothing has been lost forever. That something good can be rescued from something evil."

She stood up, but she still held him in her gaze.

"I suppose, in the end, I wanted to understand you. Perhaps in that understanding, I could touch a part of myself that I thought I had lost for good.

"And now that my tale is told, I realize that in some small measure, I wanted you to understand me."

To Harry, her eyes were utterly human, no different from the ones he saw in the mirror each day. He did not reply to her. Instead, he reached up and closed his fingers around her hand.

_To be continued_

* * *

_Author's Notes:_

_1. For my Grandma, Venus Balane,_

Dec. 4, 1919 – Jan. 2, 2007 

_2. In "On Writing," Stephen King said that stories were things you found instead of create, like fossils that slept in stone. But Mr. King also said that no matter how hard you try, you can't bring the whole fossil out without breaking anything. I didn't understand him until years later, working on this fic. I felt it here—a tiny bit of despair. If there's one unique sorrow writers have, I think it happens when their subject matter far exceeds their skill of telling it._

_3. Dahlia refers to herself at one point as the Morrígan. The Morrígan_ _is a Celtic goddess of battle, strife, and fertility, and her name means "Great Queen" or "Phantom Queen." Dahlia's letter to the Circle is quoted from a legend where the Morrígan_ _prophesied the end of the world. Dahlia's other name, Rathgrith, refers to the Valkyrie of the same name and is similarly rich in meaning. Valkyries are the divine beings that choose those who would be slain in battle, sealing their fate. Oddly enough, Rathgrith means "Counsel of Peace" or "Peace of the Gods."_

4. "_It was an evil being, wasn't it?"_

"_Nay," the old tree answered, as if he was not certain himself. _

"_After a long time passed, there came a traveler._

_The traveler cured those who suffered disease, resurrected the soil,_

_and gathered together all those people who sheltered themselves away from here._

_They founded a village, which soon became a town._

_And with the passing of the seasons,_

_the rivers once again ran full of water._

_The barren soil became a wheat field._

_The land was once again prosperous and at peace._

_Thereupon, the traveler decided it was time to leave._

_The villagers were far from happy about this._

_They tried to persuade the traveler to stay, _

_but they did not succeed._

_At the moment of departure, the traveler spoke these words:_

'_I am Rathgrth.'"_

_-- "A Blue Dove for the Princess", by Ellinor Graun _

_Up Next: Fire on the snow. Seeking Ginny. Lies of the heart. Before the Crystal Wall. Freedom._

_Chapter XXVIII: Children_


	29. Children

**The Phoenix and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter XXVIII: Children**

Danny sprinted up the frozen slope of the hill as fast as his legs allowed. He did not mind the cold, could barely feel his lungs burning for air or the strain on his legs. All these were lost to the heat of the chase.

Twelve of them this time. Twelve Death Eaters on his tail. The last prank he pulled didn't go over well with them. He'd made a vegetable garden of their patrol: five Death Eaters buried upside down in a big snowdrift, their legs sticking out like a new breed of celery stalk.

Now the captain, a man bereft of any sense of humor, had sent the rest of the camp after him. Danny had never faced so many at once; the most he'd fought were eight hired thugs in a dark alley. Another time he wouldn't have a moment's hesitation of taking these guys on, but this was February, the earth covered with freshly fallen snow, and sometimes you couldn't take a step forward without slush sucking your leg up to your knee. The moment he saw them swarming up from the other side of the hill, he turned tail and ran.

These men were young—probably even younger than he was. They were tired and hungry and desperate, and they were willing to fight it out, snow or no snow, if it meant getting out of this freezing wilderness. Nowadays it no longer seemed like fighting. They were more like a bunch of kids playing a twisted game of reverse-tag: he was It, and if they caught him, they would kill him.

_If _they caught him.

He reached the top of the hill and vaulted over it, nearly toppling as he landed on the other side. A single misstep would've had him spinning head over heels down to the bottom. To keep his momentum he avoided the snow, hopping from one exposed rock to another.

_"Over there!" _

A shot burst a stone near his foot. He leaped away, scattering snow as he slid, barely in control, down the rest of the hill. He hefted the phantom wand over his shoulder and conjured a Wandshield to protect his back. "You're not even trying!" he shouted.

Reaching the bottom of the hill, he heard a series of pops as three dark figures appeared several feet before him. _Ministry Apparation Passes_, he thought. But gods, they were novices all right—they were all facing the wrong way after they had reappeared. He punished them with Stunners apiece as they spun around and rushed past before they even hit the ground. Caracal-3, Death Eaters-0.

The idea was to put a good distance between him and his pursuers, but the next few strides plunged him into a snowdrift that came up to his thighs. He managed to catch himself just enough to keep from pitching forward. Turning back, he saw that the rest of the Death Eaters were nearing the bottom of the hill. If he tried sludging through the drift, he would get shot in the back for sure.

So instead, he dipped both wands into the snow. _Rising from Water._ One of the deadliest surprise attacks of the Seagull School, based on such a simple principle—use the water (or snow) to conceal the movement of your wand and the direction of the spell. Perfect for single duels. Against multiple opponents, well… He was better off slinging the Foe-Hammer off his back and letting them have it, but hell, he didn't want to kill the poor bastards.

And so it all came down to speed. He'd relied on speed all his life to get him out of trouble—the quick tongue, the quick wand, the quick escape. It was all he had left now to survive.

As the first Death Eater came within range, he gave a battlecry and fired from beneath the snow. The Stunner caught his target by surprise, sending him flying backwards. The one behind him returned fire, but his wand movement so obviously betrayed his Blinding Curse that Danny simply knocked it back at him with his Wandshield. The rest of them were casting curses now, but without any stable footing on the snow he could tell that their curses were likely going to miss him by a mile and a half.

The telltale _bangs _from behind him were his only warnings. Danny hurled himself forward as the heat of several curses seared his scalp. He cried out in agony as the lash of a burning whip exploded on his left shoulder. Dammit, the last three were flanking him!

He had time only to react. Turning, his wands flailed at the ground beneath him. The snow around him burst into a thick wall of white. He ducked as the next volley of curses came—they all missed, the wall was just enough to spoil their aim. He drew in one last deep breath, then surged forward through that collapsing white wall, firing, and firing, and firing.

The Crystal Cage around his neck whipped through the air, winking crimson beneath the sun's glare.

* * *

Jamie squinted his eyes as he stared at the ground three hundred feet below him and shifted in his seat for a tighter control of his broom. He had been staying under cloud cover all the while to keep the Death Eater squad from spotting him, waiting for the right moment to strike. He had only one Snare, after all, and one chance to do this right. 

With a single deep breath, he dove.

To their credit, the Death Eaters spotted him almost immediately after he left the cloud. One of them gave a wordless cry and pointed, and in the next moment a volley of curses came screaming up at him.

With a tiny nudge of his knee, Jamie veered his broom to the right and the curses stormed past. He performed a quick barrel-roll to evade the next volley. With every assault he ducked, swerved, and rolled out of the way, never losing sight of his one objective—the Death Eater captain in the middle of the group.

Twenty feet away, he hurled the Snare and pulled up on his broom.

His aim was true—he knew from the shout of surprise that rang behind him. He looked over his shoulder with a satisfied grin. The Snare had coiled itself around their leader, toppling him over on the snow-covered grass like a cat tangled up in yarn.

A whistle blew from the stands to his right and he leveled off on his flight.

"Hey Ernie!" cried Seamus Finnigan from below. "How come _I'm_ always the Death Eater captain? Get someone else for a change!"

Ernie McMillan ignored him. "Were you hit?" he shouted up at Jamie.

"Not once!" Jamie called back.

"Good job! OK, guys, take a break while we reset the scenario!"

Wiping his forehead on his sleeve, Jamie flew over to the stands where Ginny was watching. She waved at him as he landed—"You were brilliant!"—and he felt himself flush with pride.

"How's your leg?" he inquired as he settled down next to her.

"Itchy," she laughed, tapping the cast that came up to her left thigh. "And I've got a couple more days before Madam Pomfrey takes this ugly thing off of me. I really miss flying." She sighed and tapped her crutch on the floorboard. "I feel like an old woman."

She was sitting on the upper stands, enjoying what little sunshine she could afford nowadays. Ron and Hermione sat one level down from them, working out another secret practice schedule on paper. All the Brigade meetings were secret now since the professors had ordered them to disband.

"You're not entirely blameless about that injury, you know," Hermione remarked, without looking up.

"Yeah, yeah," Ginny grumbled as she unwrapped her sandwich. "As Prefect Granger never tires of reminding me, I took a serious risk and paid for it, so I have no one to blame but myself. Can you please stop now?"

Hermione smiled in return. "I made an agreement with your mother. Since she can't make it to Hogwarts, I'm to remind you siblings twice a day to stay out of trouble." She leaned back on her arms to stretch. "Looks like you got an owl, Ron," she said, pointing up at the sky.

Ron glanced up from his paper. "Must be yours. Probably Professor Cowl asking for help with mooching off our supplies again."

"He's NOT mooching, Ronald. If you haven't noticed, the refugees are still in serious need of—"

But to Ginny's surprise, the owl landed next to her. "Oh, for me?" She put down her sandwich to undo the knot from its leg.

"It's from Mum," avowed Ron, reaching for his own lunch.

Ginny made a disgruntled noise. "I just bet. Probably _another_ reminder for me not to do anything dangerous." She petted the owl before unrolling the letter.

"Tell her we're behaving," Ron said through a mouthful. "Tell her you've taken up knitting—

"I've been knitting since I was eight."

"—anything to keep her off our backs."

"What do you think I've been doing all this time?" She started reading, lips moving silently. A moment later, Jamie noticed her face turning an interesting shade of red.

"Something wrong, Ginny?" he asked.

"Oh…um…n-nothing," she mumbled. "It's nothing."

"Well, what does Mum want now?" Ron pressed her.

Ginny's face reddened even more. "It's not from Mum."

Hermione looked up. "It isn't? Then who sent…oh." She fell quiet when she saw the look of tremendous embarrassment on Ginny's face. "It's not…not what I think it is, is it?"

"Not another one of those Witch Weekly make-up catalogues? Don't they know you're not even sixteen?" Frowning, Ron snatched the letter from his sister's hands.

"Ron! Don't!" She made a grab for it but her brother had turned to one side and began reading out loud.

"_Dear Ginny, you don't know me, but I've watched you for some time now. Finally I've finally gathered enough courage to write to you, and I only hope you can be patient as I try my best to express these feelings that I've kept bottled up since_—WHO IS THIS IDIOT?!?"

"Give it!" screamed Ginny, taking another swipe, but Ron retreated down the bleachers, skimming to the end of the letter. "_Much love and admiration, Tristan Todd_. Do you know this moron?"

Ginny stumped after him and managed to snatch the letter from his hands. "It seems I know a lot of morons."

"Answer the question!"

"No, I don't know him! Not that it's any of your business!"

"If some bloke writes my sister a love letter, I'd like to make it my business—especially since he wants to meet you later at three o'clock!"

Jamie stiffened in his seat.

Wide-eyed, Ginny scanned the letter. "Oh no," she moaned. "I…I can't. The choir's got practice sessions and—"

"Don't tell me you're actually thinking of meeting him!"

Ginny's face shifted from crestfallen to furious in an instant. "Ron. Butt. OUT." She limped her way back up the bleachers, only to find that three newly-arrived owls had settled on her seat and were blinking up at her.

"I think these are for you, too," said Hermione, who had not quite succeeded with hiding a smile.

"Oh for the love of..." Ginny hurriedly untied the letters and ripped one open. "They can't all be from boys!"

They weren't. One gushing letter happened to come from a girl. Ginny stuffed them all into her pockets, a glazed look in her eyes. "This isn't happening."

"Well, it's understandable," Hermione said gently. "You're quite the popular figure now. People come to the Great Hall every week to hear your choir. And you're one of the heroes of Willow Hill. You've given a lot of people hope. It's normal to get a few admirers."

"I'd rather they do their admiring from a distance!" Ron exclaimed. "We can do without the owls and the gifts, thanks very much! Hey!"

Ginny was already stumping away. "What are you going to do about those letters?" Ron shouted after her.

She didn't even turn around, so he stalked after her. Hermione simply sighed and gathered her books. "You'll be all right here by yourself?" she asked the homunculus.

"Yes," came Jamie's automatic reply.

"See you later, then."

The homunculus sat alone on the bleachers, staring at nothing. When his turn came again, he got on his broom and flew up to the team—and proceeded to turn in his worst performance in Quidditch ever. He missed every one of his targets, and every Bludger aimed at him managed to knock him off of his broom onto the net below. He wasted three Snares on the goal posts, lost two on the bleachers, and managed to use one on himself. All this amidst peals of laughter from the rest of the team.

After ten solid minutes of this, Ernie called him down. Jamie obeyed but could not dismount as the Snare still kept him tangled up with his broom.

Ernie could only stare at him. "What the hell were you doing out there, Potter?"

Jamie hung his head. "Sorry."

"Are you all right?"

"I think so." Pause. "Maybe not."

"I don't get it." Ernie just shook his head. "Maybe you just need some rest. That's it. Hit the showers and take the rest of the day off." And he sped off on his own broom.

It took some time before Jamie could disentangle himself and walk back to the school. The daily living noise of the campus surrounded him, but inside there was only a queer, ringing silence. He was acutely aware of the muscles of his body clenching on their own accord. And no matter how he tried to relax, the hard knot in the center of his belly simply wasn't going away. No amount of distraction could pull him away from the thought that someone had actually sent Ginny love letters. And that she was probably going to go meet him.

And why not? Who wouldn't notice Ginny? She was bright and funny and friendly and brave. And pretty—even Harry thought so. With her ginger red hair that glowed in the sunlight and those laughing brown eyes that he loved looking into…

He stopped in his tracks, wide-eyed, panic pumping through his blood.

Was he _in love_ with Ginny?

"That's not possible!" He barely noticed that he'd spoken out loud. He himself had no emotional attachment to Harry's memories—how could he possibly have these feelings?

And yet the very idea of anyone else being that special to Ginny made him feel so ill inside that he wanted to evaporate. He was wrong—he was not going on Harry's memories alone. He had his own experiences with Ginny now. Without realizing it, his feelings for her had gotten deeper the more they stayed together.

How could this have happened? He did not want this. His job was to impersonate Harry. He was a decoy, a means of insurance, that was all. And afterwards it was back to sleep in his jar. He never wanted anything more than that before today. Now he wanted the impossible.

"She belongs with Harry," he admonished himself.

_But Harry isn't here, is he? _said a small voice inside of him. _It could be possible that Harry may never_—

_Enough. _Jamie shook his head roughly._ I should go to Professor Dumbledore._

But even this thought filled him with dread. He trusted Dumbledore with his life, true, but suppose the old headmaster deemed it best for him to return to his own jar, before his feelings got any stronger? How could he leave Ginny behind?

No, he had to see _her _first.

He broke into a run into the school's main hallway. He had to catch her alone, find out what she made of all this. He had to let her know how he felt. Before he lost her to someone else.

* * *

He couldn't find her anywhere. 

He looked through all of Gryffindor Tower, snuck a peek in the library, searched the Great Hall, the Astronomy Tower, and every major hall of the school, all the while his eyes searching for that tell-tale red hair, his mind filled with visions of what he was going to do to the boy—any boy—who was talking with her.

He had never had violent thoughts before. He found them oddly satisfying.

Three o'clock came and went and still no sign of her. At last it came to him that she may be in what she called her "safe place", and headed for the enchanted grove of elders just beyond the West wing.

Ginny was sitting beneath the shade of a tree, running her fingers over Nap's furry belly as the niffler lay asleep on her lap. She raised her head at his approach.

For a moment, he could only look at her. The late sun was in her hair, turning it into a burning red-gold. Her eyes were jewel-bright on him, and he felt his heart skip a beat. He had rehearsed a speech, but now he couldn't remember a word of it.

"Hey," he said, when he finally found his tongue.

"Hey yourself." They smiled at each other. They had an unspoken contract to always try to keep each other smiling.

"I was worried," he told her. "I couldn't find you. You seemed quite upset."

"I'm all right," she assured him. "I just needed to handle things, I suppose." She patted the grass beside her and he sat next to her.

"So…" he began, "you actually met the guy, huh?"

She nodded once. He didn't quite know how to phrase his next question, but she answered it for him anyway. "I turned him down as politely as I could."

Jamie was very, very careful not to let her hear his sigh of relief.

"He was the most forward of them, actually," she went on. "The rest were just—fan mail." She gave him a look that seemed at once amused and helpless.

"I guess he should be content that you even bothered to answer."

"I wanted to answer. It was very brave of him to do what he did."

"Brave?"

She looked away to the where snow glittered beneath the sun. "I know how it feels to like someone who doesn't like you back, at least not the way you want them to."

Jamie's mind traveled back in time to Second Year. Harry barely noticed her at all back then. Jamie didn't know whether to thank him or hit him.

"He asked me if there was someone else," Ginny went on. "I couldn't give him a straight answer, so that sort of gave him hope." She gave a little grin. "He was more than a little forward."

"I'd say." _He's the one who needs hitting._

She turned her gaze on him. "You know…it's strange."

"What is?"

"I just realized, four days have gone by, and I hadn't once thought of him."

Jamie became very, very still. He knew, by the sound of her voice, who she meant.

"It never came to me that I forgot. Only now." She looked down at her freckled hands. "I don't know how I could've forgotten. Maybe because there was so much to do and I sort of…lost myself. Maybe because it hurts too much to remember."

Then don't remember, he wanted to tell her, and nearly did. "Ginny…"

"I can't imagine my life would change so much so soon," she went on. "It wasn't too long ago when I couldn't claim to be responsible for anybody. I was really no one special. But now…"

She shook her heard. "What on earth happened? Perfect strangers smile at me in the hallways. All sorts of guys trying come up to me, some I've never even met before. The Quidditch teams of three Houses and an entire school choir look to me to lead them. People are calling me a 'Hero of Willow Hill'—can you believe it? And it hasn't even been a year since Harry…"

She looked down again. "I've changed so much. Sometimes I wake up and I wonder if I'm still really Ginevra Weasley of Ottery St. Catchpole. I guess I'm not like this garden, after all. I'm always changing whether I like it or not. And it scares me. It scares me because one day I might become a completely different person who loves completely different things. If I start to let other people into my life, there may not be any space left for those…those I don't have with me anymore." Her breathing gave a sudden hitch. "And if that happens, they might be truly gone."

They sat quietly together, his gaze on her, hers on the glittering snow.

"I don't think that will happen," Jamie said softly, and she turned to look at him. "I don't think it'll happen at all.

"I think of Professor Dumbledore. He's the headmaster of this school and a leader of the wizarding world, a really important man who's responsible for so much. But he didn't stop there—he opened up Hogwarts and saved hundreds of people from the war. He didn't let anyone stop him, not the Ministry, not the directors, not his critics. He never runs out of space in his life. I can go and talk to him about just about anything and he's always willing to listen to me. It's amazing that the more he gives of himself, the more he finds in himself to give.

"I think you and Dumbledore are very much the same, Ginny. You cared for Nap, you cared for the refugees, you cared for the Brigade. You won't ever run out of space in your life, believe me. You'll only discover more of yourself to share. I've felt that way, so I know. I never thought I could sing, or play Quidditch, or even talk with anyone like this. But look at us. We're doing it, together.

"You give so freely of yourself, Ginny, without anyone asking it of you. It's no surprise that others,"—he looked away for an instant—"that others want to give back as much to you."

When he looked up again she was smiling at him. A real smile, not one of those tiny ones that made her look sad or unsure, or the crooked ones that made her look older than she was. A true, glorious smile that reflected in her eyes and that lit him up inside. Gods, if he wasn't sure he loved her, he was sure of it now.

"That's very sweet of you, Jamie, thank you," she said. "How'd you get so smart?"

"It was _your _booklist," he muttered. _And because, if you've been changing, I've been changing right along with you. _

She laughed at that. Then, with Nap still cradled in one arm, she tried to hoist herself up. "Let's go get dinner."

He stood and offered her his hand, and savored the feel of her skin as she accepted it. He followed her as she limped towards the castle, listening to her laughter as Nap nipped at her ear.

No, he couldn't tell her how he felt, not when she was in so much turmoil over her own feelings. He wouldn't do that to her. Instead, he would care for her as silently as he had before. He would be her friend, and he would wait.

_All I want_, he told her silently, _all I need from you is the chance that one day, you'll look at me. Look at me the way I'm looking at you now._

He closed his eyes for a moment and imagined it, that singular sweet gaze that warmed him like inner sunshine.

No, not today.

But maybe one day.

* * *

When he thought he was finally ready, Harry came to where Dahlia was sitting in the heart of the Crystal. 

"I'm going to the hinterlands," he said. "For the last time, I hope."

She surprised him by getting up from her place by the tree. "I will walk with you."

Soon they were moving past the sprawling spring meadow, past the silent birch forest, past the desert of undulating glittering sand, past the rock-strewn stream that cut through the hills of chalk, until they finally reached the misty borders of the hinterlands.

Through it all, they both kept a companionable silence. But as they stepped through the mists, Harry said, "There's something I want to ask you. I've been thinking about it for a long time."

She fixed him with her quiet emerald stare. Harry hesitated a beat longer than necessary.

"Is it possible," he asked, "to ever lose Singularity? You told me once that no power in the wizarding world could overcome it, that I can use it to protect everyone and everything I love. But…will it always be there when I need it? Or can I lose it somehow?"

She said, "Harry, your real question hides behind the one you just asked."

Harry flushed. She really knew him well, didn't she?

"Dahlia, what if I'm not strong enough to keep Singularity? If I ever just give in to anger or hatred, won't I lose it for good?"

"When a wolf loses a fang, it does not cease to be a wolf," she answered, "and the moon does not vanish though a cloud hides it from sight."

"So you're saying I can't ever lose Singularity, or…?"

"You may stumble, you may falter, and in that you may lose sight of who you truly are. But these are none of them permanent. Singularity is a way of living and a choice you make every day of your life. You cannot lose it any more than your mother can cease being your mother or your father your father, even when their actions lead you to believe otherwise."

Then she gazed deeper into him. "There is something you are afraid of," she observed. "That is why you ask. Would you share it with me?"

He looked down at the damp grass that had clung to his shoes. "I was just thinking," he said. "You said Singularity is a path. You said it's about peace. I'm thinking that if I follow it long enough, it seems inevitable that…"

He paused, engulfed by the enormity of the words.

"…I'll have to forgive Voldemort."

Dahlia did not respond.

"I don't think I can do it," Harry went on. "When I think about what he's done, after all this time… I just don't see how can anyone expect me to forgive him."

He turned to her for an answer, but she only said, "You are right, Harry. He has done much evil, and it is just that he suffers."

Harry nodded.

"And it is also true that Voldemort has no use for your forgiveness."

"I bet," Harry agreed. "But if I don't forgive him, I won't win against him, right? But then, the only reason I want to win is because I can't forgive him!" He laughed a humorless laugh.

"You took the path of vengeance before," Dahlia said. "Would you return to it?"

"No," he replied quickly. "It made me feel like I wasn't really living at all. I don't ever want to go back."

"But if you do not forgive, it is the only path you may take. A path of mutual suffering, for yourself and your foes." She glanced down at her pale hand. "A path of living death."

Harry thought this over as they climbed the slope of a hill. "Dahlia…how do I learn to forgive?"

"An unlit lantern cares nothing for the darkness," she said. "If you would learn forgiveness, give it first to the one who needs it the most."

Bewildered, Harry was about to ask her what she meant, when she stopped walking.

"We are here."

Before them rose a great cliff of sunburned stone. A huge crack spanning several feet across split the wall like a bolt of black lightning. Harry could see nothing through its darkness. Still, he was instantly struck by a feeling of _déja vû_. He had seen this place before…

"You know this place," Dahlia said, as if sensing his thoughts. "You do not recognize it now, as at the time you were looking at it from above."

It took him a moment for him to piece together what she meant, then his mouth fell open in realization—

_No peace without revenge. _

The valley of the Deceiver.

"But it can't be here," he muttered, eyeing the desolate cliff. "I haven't even left the Crystal!"

"As a final task, the hinterlands are bringing you to a place you fear to tread," she answered. "It may take any form. It was different for me, the first time I came here."

"And the edge of the Crystal's just past that?" He didn't like how small his voice sounded.

She nodded.

"Well…what's in there, you think?"

He didn't think she would answer, but she did so without hesitation. "Demons," she said. "Demons and lies."

"I'm sorry I asked then." Harry became acutely aware of his quickening pulse. "Are you really going there with me?"

Her only answer was to lay her hand on his shoulder.

It was enough for him. Steeling himself, he strode towards the inky blackness of the ravine.

As they were about to enter, he heard her whisper, "This place saddens me."

"Is it…really that bad, then?" he asked.

"No. I am confident you know enough of yourself to pass with little difficulty." Her wings closed around her shoulders, as if to shield her from a cold only she could feel. "But once you are done, you will be leaving the Crystal at last. That is why I have come. To bid you goodbye."

Harry's eyes widened. Did she just imply that she would miss him once he had gone? He turned to look at her, but then the shadows of the ravine swallowed them both.

All was quiet. The air was as dead as the inside of a tomb, and the darkness seemed to muffle even the gentle scruff of his feet on the pebble-strewn floor.

Harry did not speak now, for fear of catching unwanted attention. He waited and waited for something to happen, straining his ears for a sound not his own. But the darkness only yawned wider, yielding nothing.

Soon the light of the entrance faded from behind them and the web of shadows closed around him. Harry looked up at the sliver of blue sky, maybe a hundred feet above. Was he only imagining it, or did that bright thread of light seem to thin the further they progressed? No, it was true. The floor was gently sloping downwards, leading them deeper into the earth. More, Harry noticed that the path was steadily growing narrower, as if the walls had crept closer without his noticing. The air around him felt very, very heavy.

Harry didn't know how Dahlia had managed this alone. Everything here was an assault to the senses: the silence, the oppressive air, the sensation of being boxed in, the interminable wait for something to happen.

What could be in here that defeated even the legendary Grindelwald?

Something flitted in the distance before them. Dahlia's hand, which had never left his shoulder, gave a sudden squeeze.

"They come."

Harry started at a sudden pale light, like the afterglow one saw when squeezing one's eyes shut. It came again, phasing up from the ground and through the walls of the ravine. They were people.

They were ghosts.

Harry had known ghosts before in Hogwarts, but the horde of faces melting in from the floor and the walls and the very darkness itself were nothing like them. They did seem to be suffering as to _embody_ suffering. Their long, unkempt hair drifted like seaweed, their long robes filled with holes and skin riddled with wounds. Their faces were gray and slack, as if they had died thirsty and were thirsting still. Worst of all were their eyes—blind, opaque, and milky-white like that of dead fish. Harry did not know how he knew, but there was no mistake. These were the souls of murdered men. The Circle of Nine.

Harry soon found that he and Dahlia were surrounded. He nearly halted in fright, but the gentle pressure on his shoulder kept him walking. The ghosts, however, kept pace with them, and when they spoke their hollow voices seemed to come from beneath the ground.

_"Cimmerian Sorceress!" _

_"Rathgrith! Raven Queen!" _

_"Demoness, defiler! Source of our suffering!" _

_"Even if you escape, you will never escape!" _

An unnatural chill wreathed their forms, and Harry felt it crawl down the skin of his back.

_"Is he one of yours, blood-drinker?" _

One of them brushed against him and Harry flinched at how cold he was. His eyes had the color of polluted water. Two circular wounds gaped at the side of his neck.

_"Will you kill him as you've killed our children? Will you drain him dry, like a beast feeding on its young?" _

Dahlia did not reply, but she tightened her grip around Harry and urged him on. Her nerve astounded him.

Then his mind melted in horror as a familiar, pallid face hovered before him. There was no mistaking the huge scar on the corner of his mouth, splitting open like a second grin. It was him. The only man he had ever killed.

_"The same,"_ Irian said to him in that same hollow voice. _"You're all the same. You. Grindelwald. Voldemort. Killers all."_

"No." The word fell like a stone from Harry's lips.

_"You are no better than the Dark Lord. No, you're worse. **He **doesn't pretend to be a hero, **he **doesn't pretend to be anything but the killer he is." _

"I won't listen to you," Harry said. "You're a liar. Everything here's just a bald-faced lie!"

_"Is it?" _The shade grinned even wider. _"Can you lie to yourself, hero? Ask your own heart. You liked murdering me. You never felt so alive as when you were taking a life."_

"You tried to kill Moody," Harry snarled. "You tried to kill me."

_"But in the end it was you who did the killing. And because you did, you will have me forever. You will wear me like a scar." _

Before Harry could utter another word, another ghost slipped towards him from his left. All the air left his lungs when he met the slack, dead face of Nicholas Flamel.

_"It was because of you that I lost the Philosopher's Stone," _he intoned_. "It was because of you that that beast came to my house. Perenelle would still be alive. I would still be alive. If it weren't for you." _

Harry felt himself sway on his feet. "No. No. You wanted to go. You told me—you said you wanted to—"

_ "Humans were meant to live and love forever. I could have loved her forever, don't you see? But you put an end to that." _

"NO!"

Harry would have frozen where he was had Dahlia's hand not urged him on. But when the last ghost appeared from his right, Harry thought he was going to collapse.

_"Do you know what it's like to be dead, Harry?" _

Harry could feel his guilt, like a terrible tide sweeping a drowning man from the shore. He gave no answer.

_"It's so cold, so dark,"_ said the pale boy. _"Nothing can warm you. All your good memories are just a torture, because you can never have anything like them again. Why, Harry? Why did I have to die?" _

"Cedric…" croaked Harry. "Cedric, please…I didn't…I didn't kill you."

_"You as good as killed me. Did I die so that you could live? You, the hero?" _

_"Why, Harry?" _asked Flamel on his left. _"Why are you like this, so seemingly good on the outside, yet so rotten to the core?" _

_"Even if you escape," _Irian breathed from behind him, _"you will never escape. You will carry us forever. You will bear us to your grave."_

Sick with guilt, Harry finally came to a halt and this time Dahlia let him. Was he truly blameless, or was he responsible? Was he hearing lies or the truth?

He turned to Dahlia beside him for guidance, but she was not looking at him now. Her gaze was fixed straight ahead, and when Harry followed her eyes he saw what seemed to be a gigantic mirror blocking their path. The wan light from the ghosts illuminated its black frame of twisting, snake-like metal, and though they could not see the ghosts on its polished surface, they could see their own pale reflections by their light.

Or was it really their reflections? They looked like exact replicas, but their features were so twisted with hate that Harry nearly did not recognize them.

His surprise grew as Dahlia left his side. She passed through the ghosts without hesitation and approached her mirror image, who gazed back at her with unmasked loathing. The Sorceress then said three words, seemingly a spell, then took a single step forward—

—Into the mirror, vanishing along with her reflection.

Panic surged through Harry. "Wait! Don't leave me!"

But it was as if she could not hear him. The three spirits crowded closer, whispering words that cut into him like cold knives. But he did not notice them now. His gaze was riveted to his own image.

It had stepped out of the mirror. It was stalking towards him.

Harry could only watch as it approached, dark eyes locked with his own. Harry felt its loathing for him like waves of heat. He could not tear his eyes away from his own face, so ugly with hate. It halted before him. Now he was surrounded from all sides. They kept him trapped here as surely as prison walls.

Where was Dahlia? Was she abandoning him here in the dark?

As his mind reeled, a different question came to him—_What do I have to be to get past this? What is the truth? _

He shut his eyes. The truth, Harry, the truth now. Was he responsible for all these deaths?

There was no answer.

He simply did not know. He would probably never know.

But the truth was—he _felt _responsible.

And this, he realized, was the source of his guilt. His mind went back to how he felt when Cedric died, when Flamel died. When he and Moody talked about Irian's death This was the reason he suffered. _He felt responsible_.

'That's why I'm being haunted,' he realized, dropping his gaze. It was the truth used against him. No wonder he hated himself so much. Unless he resolved this, he really would bear his guilt until the end of his life.

He raised his eyes to meet the black gaze of his own mirror image.

What Dahlia whispered to her other self…it was not a spell at all. It was such a simple, simple thing to say.

"I forgive you."

He felt, as before, a heavy weight lifted from his chest. A sudden gust of fresh air, so cool and sweet it made his lungs ache, swept through the ravine. The image before him grimaced, as if it had been forced to eat something bitter. And when Harry next blinked in the dark, both his reflection and the ghosts were gone.

The scent of sweet air called to him, and Harry did not hesitate. He ran towards the mirror, raised his arms to his face, vaulted through it—

Into welcome, dizzying sunlight.

Harry collapsed to his knees, taking in one gulp of fresh air after another. He wiped the cold sweat from his brow, shivering despite the warmth. Then a pair of cool hands took his shoulders and raised him up.

Dahlia was smiling down at him.

He looked her right in the eyes, and for no reason he could possibly fathom at the moment, said, "I forgive you."

"And I forgive you," she said in reply.

She waited with him as he recovered his breath, then Harry looked about. They were in a vale of thin trees, where the ground steadily turned to grass the further away from the cliff.

"It's over, isn't it?" he asked Dahlia.

In response, she turned a little to the side so he could see behind her.

The ground gently sloped down away from the vale, and near the foot of the little hill where they stood a great wall of red crystal rose from soil to sky. Harry gasped at the sight. To his eyes, the wall filled with shimmering _aether _magic. This, at last, was the edge of the hinterlands, the threshold of the Crystal Cage.

"Look there, Harry," Dahlia pointed a pale finger to a spot not far from the wall. Harry squinted at the sight of four translucent figures standing there and looking up at them.

"Who are they?" he asked. "Not more ghosts? Aren't we done with…?"

"There were never any ghosts, Harry. There was only you back there, and you before you. It is the same for me. If those behind us represent our burdens, then these before us represent our hopes." She took his hand. "Come. They would have words with us."

If Harry felt any trepidation at all as they made their way down the hill, these vanished when he recognized two of the figures present.

James and Lily Potter beamed up at him, their forms wispy and translucent and not-all-there. They looked very much like they did when he saw them emerge from Voldemort's wand during _Priori Incantatem_. Just a few steps away from them, Harry recognized Arlen himself, although looking quite a bit younger. Beside him stood woman Harry didn't know. A simple pale robe clad her slim body, and white locks of hair flowed from the sides of her aged face. She looked at them kindly as she waited for their approach.

Dahlia broke away from his side. "Go to them, Harry," she urged him. "I will speak to Arlen and my Druid Mother, whom I have not seen since last I came here."

Drawing a deep breath, Harry stepped closer. He had seen images of his parents before, and each time was filled with such wonder and bittersweet longing, he never knew what to say to them. But his mother's face broke into a warm, lovely smile when he came near.

"Harry," she breathed his name like a prayer. "Harry, you have done so well."

"We did not want you to suffer as you have suffered," said his father. "But with every challenge you've come through, unbowed and stronger. I could not have asked for a better son."

"Mum…Dad…" Harry began, then turned his gaze away. How could he tell them what he'd learned of himself? "I haven't…I haven't always done the right thing. People were hurt because of me. People died because I wasn't able to protect them."

"Harry, my dearest." He felt his mother drift closer, and he mustered the courage to look up at her.

"Even if there is darkness within you, that's not all you are," said Lily. "While you are burdened by what you call your sins, know that you also carry with you the memories of people you have helped, people whose lives became better simply because you were there."

"I'm glad you were born, Harry," said James. "Always remember that we love you very, very much."

Harry felt a sudden, aching joy breaking out inside him, bringing him close to tears. After all the terrible things he had seen and heard, these felt like the end of a fever. He ached to hold the—they would be as air to his hands, but that didn't stop him from reaching for them.

His mother stretched her fingertips towards his, and though she did not feel solid at all, Harry felt a strange reassuring warmth, like sunlight. "You are free now, Harry," she said. "You may walk through the Crystal Wall and reclaim your life. Promise me that you'll treasure it for the rest of your days."

"We look forward to when we can all be together again," added his father, "but that won't be for a while yet."

Harry nodded. He understood that it was goodbye once more. Stepping back, he waited for them disappear.

To his surprise, her mother turned to look at Dahlia, who seemed to have finished speaking with her Druid Mother. Lily waited until she had caught the Sorceress's eye.

Arlen suddenly spoke, "There is something I want to tell you, Eirin. Before my death I left my last memories here for you, should this day finally come to pass."

Without breaking eye contact with Dahlia, Lily said, "Cimmerian Sorceress, you have opened your heart to another, and now you are ready for the truth! Your beloved never married nor sired another child. He never looked at another woman with love in his eyes ever again."

The Druid Mother spoke in turn. "Arlen spent his life searching for the truth of what happened in the village of your birth. And in his twilight years, he found it, hidden away atop a lonely mountain village." She spread her arms, a wide smile on her face. "He found us."

Then Lily began to walk towards the Druid Mother. With every step she changed form, an old woman, a young man, until finally she became a small child of about two, with red hair and startling green eyes.

Dahlia's lips fell open. "Anwell?"

The Druid Mother reached out for the little boy. As he came into her embrace, his pudgy body pushed back the sleeves on her arms. Harry saw that her skin was twisted and pink, as if she had been horribly burned.

As if she had reached through a fire.

Dahlia staggered forward, eyes bright with disbelief._ "Anwell?"_

The Druid Mother lifted the child up, and both turned to smile at her. A gust of wind, a sudden swirl of leaves, and the spirits all vanished.

Dahlia gave a shuddering gasp before dropping to her knees. Her gaze was as empty as glass. "No," she breathed. "It cannot be. I saw you die…I saw…"

Harry stood rooted to the spot, thoughts whirling at the implication of the memory. Anwell had lived? Had he raised his own family? And were he and his mother—

Any other thoughts were shattered by a violent wave of force that nearly knocked him to the ground.

On her knees before him, Dahlia was screaming.

Harry had never in his life heard such a sound. There were not enough words to describe her cry—loss, regret, relief, joy, the words touched the meaning but not the emotion underneath. As if in sympathy the earth groaned beneath his feet, and the air around him rippled like a desert mirage. She stretched out one perfectly pallid hand as if she could snatch back the past. Her eyes were squeezed shut, twin streaks of blood tears marred her beautiful face, and it seemed like every inch of her body was screaming.

Harry could not hope to fully understand the depth of her feelings, but it was no longer a question of understanding. He knelt beside her and put his arms around her.

"Dahlia, it's okay, it's all right."

She did not stop. The sound passed through him in a wave of power, forcing a sob from his lungs, but he only clasped her tighter as if he could physically keep her from coming apart.

"Dahlia, it's okay! I'm here, I'm here!"

At last, after what would have passed for years, her cry faded into a gentle sobbing. Still cradling her, Harry brushed his wet face against his sleeve. He had no idea when he had started crying.

He felt her arms rise to return his embrace. She looked up at his face; a tear fell from her cheek to form a tiny scarlet sunburst on his sleeve.

"You were born from me," she whispered, her voice quivering with awe. "You are my own, my flesh and blood."

* * *

It was a long time before Dahlia released him and led him by the hand towards the Crystal wall. 

"Volarius never told you about your son," Harry said. "Why?"

"Perhaps he did," she said, her gaze sad and faraway. "Perhaps he tried, but I was not listening. And even if I had, I would not have believed him. Only now." She looked back at Harry. "Only now."

They came to stand before the wall, and Harry stretched one hand towards that blazing red gemstone. It was not solid at all; there was a tingling sensation as his hand passed through. It would be a simple matter to step forward, through the wall and into freedom.

Without thinking, Harry snatched his hand back and said to her, "Come back with me."

The look she gave back had nothing but surprise.

"Come back with me," he repeated. "You don't have to stay here forever. You can…you can start a new life. I can help you. And you can help me. We can fight the Dark Lord _together_."

She seemed unable to reply, so he hurried on. "I'm sure it will be hard for you at first—you won't be able to live out in real sunlight, will you? But I'm sure we can find a way. I've got friends who can help. Dumbledore, Sirius, Remus, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny…I'm sure they'll understand. I'd like for them to you meet you." He paused, looked her straight in the eye. "Will you come?"

Her lips opened as if to form a "yes," but she stopped. Harry thought he saw a flicker of fear cross her face.

"I am sorry."

Disappointment filled him. "But why not?"

"Harry," she said. "I am a vampire."

"That's not all you are," he countered. "Not to _me_."

"I cannot follow you, no matter how much I wish to. There is nothing for me beyond the Crystal wall. My time is gone, my life is gone. It is just that I remain here, as my penance for the past."

Harry shook his head. "Listen, I understand what you mean by penance, but I think that you can do better. You can make amends. That's what I want to do for the things I've done and the people I've let down. It's nice to live here, in dreams and ideas, but I think freedom is better."

She watched him for a moment. "Perhaps it is, my child, and perhaps you are right. I will think on this. There is much to think of after…after all we have seen. Will you grant me that, some time alone?"

He nodded, relenting. He could wait, for now, and hope that she would make the right choice in the end.

"All is well, then," she said. "All is well, and perhaps…"

She raised her hand to touch his cheek. "Will you…will you visit me, Harry, when time permits? Singularity will allow you to come here at will. But I cannot command this of you, I can only humbly ask. Will you come back for me?"

"You don't have to ask," he said, clasping her hand. "Of course I will, I promise." A smile broke out on his face. "And I'm not giving up on convincing you to come out with me, okay?"

She returned his smile. "Do you realize…I have not known happiness since I had Anwell in my life. I believed that I had brought nothing but suffering to the world, but now I see that is not true. I have also brought you. I have not lived in vain, because I have you.

"Thank you, Harry. I am glad we met."

He gazed up at her, and inwardly swore he would find a way to bring her out with him, to give her a life of peace. She deserved it as much as he did.

"Go, sweet child," she urged him. "Your friends are waiting."

He nodded once, then turned to face the Crystal. With one last deep breath, Harry held his hands out before him and stepped into the wall.

The hinterlands vanished in a brilliant, crimson flash.

* * *

He gasped at the sudden cold. 

This time it was not the idea of cold but the real thing. Harry was lying on a carpet of snow, staring up at a gunmetal gray sky. He pulled himself up, shivering and clasping himself, and looked around.

His eyes widened at the sight that greeted him. The still forms of Death Eaters littered the surrounding snowfield, sprawled on the ice like broken twigs. Their fingers were still curled around their wands. The clouds forming from their mouths told Harry they were still alive, albeit they themselves weren't aware of that.

This was no place for him—he had to find someplace to hide and somehow contact Danny and Moody. Harry turned to run, then his eyes fell upon the figure slumped against the base of a tree.

"Danny?"

The Duomancer's smoking form sat lifelessly on the snow. Tracks on the ground showed he had dragged himself here, using the Foe-Hammer as a crutch. His long arms were splayed out against his sides, palms up. His twin wands had rolled away from his fingers onto the ground. His head was bowed, corn-colored hair obscuring his face. The Crystal Cage glittered around his neck like a warning.

_"Danny?" _

Harry strode forward, grabbing his friend's shoulders and shaking gently. _Please, not another one because of me. I can't be too late. Please no._

Panic strengthened his grip and he shook his friend harder. "Danny, wake up!"

His heart gave a lurch as the older boy's head rose, just a fraction of an inch. Unfocused gray eyes regarded him.

"Robbie?" he croaked.

"Yeah," said Harry. "Yeah, Robbie. I'm back. I'm really back now. God, you gave me a real scare. I'm so glad you're—"

Everything else he was going to say would remain a mystery, because Danny clamped a hand around his neck and shoved him face-first into the snow. Harry gagged on ice for a full minute before Danny let him up for air. He sat there gasping in bewilderment as his bodyguard grinned at him.

"That," said the Duomancer, "was for the past four bloody months. Welcome back." And with that, Danny promptly blacked out.

_To be continued _

_Author's Notes: _

_1. I feel a great need to write my first novel. Therefore I resolve to finish this story before the year ends. Thankfully, the end is in sight. Not quite near, but in sight. _

_2. This won't be the last we'll hear from Dahlia. We'll see her again sometime soon. _

_Up Next: A little night music. Unwanted attention. The Creed. Knight of Mirrors. Flight. _

_Chapter XXIX: The Heart of an Auror _


	30. The Heart of an Auror

**The Phoenix and the Serpent **

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

Note: Surprise guests from post-GOF books abound on this chapter. Why? Why not?

**Chapter XXIX: The Heart of an Auror**

_"Hunter, Mage, Seeker, and Shield._

_Until the last breath,_

_Oppose evil, _

_Uphold magic, _

_Seek truth,_

_Protect lives."_

_-- The Auror's Creed, etched in stone at the Shrine of the Godland_

Midnight had come and gone, and shadows lay quietly on the mountaintop headquarters known as the Summit. Most members of the Order of the Phoenix now lay asleep in their beds, but Commander Lionel Bishop remained bent over the papers on his desk, as he had been for the past five hours. He only noticed the time when his fingers brushed against a hardened cascade of tallow on the edge of his desk. He also realized that he had not had supper, and his stomach had long tired of grumbling in protest. It couldn't be helped. He had too many matters to attend to.

His first concern was Severus Snape. Lyle had been waiting the past few days for a report regarding his infiltration of Onyx Isle. His primary concern: when and how Voldemort planned to break the Black Patriarch out of Azkaban. The Ministry kept the lock of that one particular inmate safe and secure, but both Lyle and Dumbledore knew it was only a matter of time before the Dark Lord found a way around it. Lyle shuddered at the thought of the result: a Dementor uprising. This late in the war, that would be nothing short of a disaster.

The second matter: Spring was nearly here, and the end of the snow meant the return of the giants. Any time very soon, those creatures would leave the mountains and head back into the warpath. With the Ministry pressuring the goblin army to stay out of British soil, the Order could no longer fully rely on the goblins' help against these monstrosities. They needed a solution of their own. Mundungus's latest invention may just be the answer.

His third worry: Melvincent Galino. Lyle previously had no intention of letting Captain Galino's company out their duty as home guard to go into the front lines; the man was too vindictive and needed a tight reign. But the matter with Harry Potter left Lyle with little choice but to detach Sirius and Remus from the war front. Galino took their place, and Lyle pulled Kingsley Shacklebolt from the Ministry to take his.

The choice proved at once a blessing and a curse. Kingsley was as good as they come, and Galino's expertise as a former member of Magical Law Enforcement improved their defenses; they not only held the front but pushed the Dark Army back to the point of retaking Cornwall. But Lyle's instincts about Galino were correct from the first: the man was a brute. Against Lyle's standing orders he used Killing Curses without exception, leaving no captured Death Eater alive; in short, the same atrocities that Lyle had opposed during his career in the First War.

But what could he do? Galino was a hero to his men. More, he could not pull Galino back without cutting a substantial hole in their defenses. For as long as Sirius and Remus were tied up searching for Harry, Lyle needed Galino there.

And it was not long before Lyle became caught up with sundry matters. Dwindling supplies. Lack of manpower. Increasing activity from the Aurors at the Ministry. And there were letters, more letters for the families of people who would never be seen again. The ebb and flow of the times had taken away his capacity to control Galino.

No, he amended, that wasn't true. If he tried he would have found some way to rein Galino in. He simply did not want to risk losing an ally in these dire straits. Thus he ended up doing the one thing he hated most when it came to moral matters: compromise.

The thought filled him with a cold, murky shame. If Dumbledore had been here, if Dumbledore had known…

But he was NOT here, he did NOT know. For a moment, Lyle could not stop the rush of resentment against his teacher. Damn it, the old man dropped him here and retired to Hogwarts with nary a word of help! He was better at handling matters like these—and where was he now?

Lyle shook his head, exhausted. Another truth: if he was angry at Dumbledore, he was angrier at himself for not living up to his own standards.

He reached into an inner pocket and took out a steel decorative coin. He turned it in his hands, his fingers feeling the grooves on the edge and the stamped pictures on both sides. This coin had no value to anyone, save for the Aurors. One side carried the image of their standard, the wand in a raised fist, surrounded by the radiant dawn. On the other side was the representation of their Creed: the Spear that marked the Hunter, the Candle of Truth, the Mistletoe sprig of Magic, and lastly, the image that encompassed all three, the Shield that symbolized the Auror's reverence for life, and his vow to protect it.

Unmindful of the pain, Lyle pressed his thumb against this image, until he felt the embossed surface imprint itself into his skin. He had given his youth and his sight in service of this Creed. Did he betray it, or had it betrayed him?

Finally, the Commander slipped the coin back into his pocket and pushed himself away from his desk, stretched his stiff limbs, and guided himself towards the library's oakwood stairs. He brushed the rings on his left hand together, and the returning vibrations received by his wand holstered at his side provided a clear image of the stairs and the succeeding passageway. He felt the gentle flutter of Aria's wings as the sprite landed on his shoulder and, in her simple, clicking language, asked if he wanted supper.

"I don't think so, but thank you," he replied. He was always courteous to her. She had been his seeing-eye and his good friend during these many years. Once, after he'd left the Aurors, she'd been his only friend…

His feet led him to the men's quarters. He stood just outside the door and whispered his request to Aria, who promptly flew in to check. Nearby, Mundungus rolled over in his sleep and released a loud fart. Lyle retreated from the doorway.

Aria came out almost immediately and whispered, no, Coven was not in his bed. A frown crossed Lyle's face. Where was that brother of his? His shift on the watch was long done.

The faint sound of music drew him to the mess hall, a wide room decorated with tapestries and a mural on its high, domed ceiling. Several members of the Order were gathered here, seated on some benches and arranged in a semicircle around a corner. A chime of his rings revealed who they were. In the corner sat Aliora Syrrh, playing a haunting, wordless tune on her heartlyre. Among her audience were Molly Weasley, Bernard Frost, and at the nearest bench, his brother Coven.

Now that he had found him, Lyle was loathed to disturb him. The music sounded so lovely tonight, in a way that only Aliora could make it. But Coven turned around as if he'd sensed his presence, then smiled and raised the flask in his hand. "So. Finally crawled out of your hole, have you? Why don't you join us?"

Lyle hesitated. He rarely socialized these days, but now he let his feet lead him to the space beside Coven. Some members raised their heads in acknowledgement as he sat down, but none said a word.

"Aliora decided to hold a concert tonight?" he asked in a low voice.

"Something like that," said Coven. "Molly begged her to play a little night music for her, just to keep her calm. So Aliora did, then pretty soon more people showed up and kept asking for encores. She must be used to it, being so famous." He favored Lyle with a suspicious look. "What are you doing out here, anyway?"

"Out for a walk. Needed to stretch my legs."

"Bollocks. You were looking for me again, weren't you?"

Lyle smiled. It irked Coven to no end that his elder brother still covertly checked on him; Lyle remembered how annoyed Coven was upon being ordered not to participate in the Battle of Willow Hill. He hadn't spoken to them in years, but their parents would thank him for that.

Or maybe they wouldn't. Lyle could still remember their hard eyes on him during their last reunion, after he'd returned as a full-fledged Auror. It was left to his elder sister to inform him, in not so many words, that he was no longer considered part of the family. The heavy price for following his heart.

But Coven was different. Coven would never turn him away. Coven believed in him, and no amount of discouragement could stop the boy from joining the Order of the Phoenix to follow in its footsteps. He was the only person left who considered Lyle as family.

"What's in the flask?" Lyle asked.

Coven raised it, grinning. "What if I told you it's brandy?"

"I'd have to lock you up for drinking on duty."

"Then it's hot chocolate." He took a swig, swirling the contents in his mouth before swallowing. Lyle made a disapproving noise.

"Nymphadora would never let you get away with that. I've half a mind to tell her."

"Yeah. You're right. She always keeps me in line."

The deadpan shift of his voice gave Lyle pause. But with Coven, it was best to be direct about these things. "Aren't you seeing her anymore?"

Coven gave an empty little laugh. "See, the funny thing about that question is the word 'anymore'. There was no 'any' so there is no 'more.' We're just good friends." Pause. "Seems that she prefers the older, scholarly types."

"Oh." Lyle didn't know what else to say. Damn it, why hadn't he known about this? No wonder she requested to be sent out as reinforcements to Remus's company. And no wonder Coven was seeking some kind of comfort tonight.

_Aren't we all._ Lyle stopped chiming his rings for a moment and let the darkness become complete around him. Despite not being able to "see" them, he felt the warm press of auras around him, but also a cold lingering feeling in the air, one of longing and hunger, like the room had never known sunshine.

But Aliora's music filtered through that gloom. She sang of old and easy times, of memories of home and families reunited, of the longing for war and war's ending. Everyone sat, entranced, listening as their feelings were woven into form and word and melody.

Can I blame them? Lyle wondered. This war had taken too long and was taking too much. All of them were branded as outlaws, separated from their loved ones. Bernard's wife and children were refugees in Hogwarts. Molly's husband and her two elder sons were each in separate missions. And while he was furious with Galino, he also understood the elder man's loss; the terror of finding the Dark Mark leering over your own home, of opening the door to find everything that ever mattered to you had been reduced to cold bodies on the floor.

_I've been so wrapped up with my own troubles_, Lyle thought, _I've never taken the time to look around me._ The members of the Order were seeking some balm for their souls, and perhaps they found it in here, surrounded by Aliora's music. He did not know if she had woven magic into the melody, or the power of the heartlyre, or if it was simply the skill of her playing, but Lyle was grateful either way. Unlike her, he could only feed their physical hunger, not the yearnings of the heart.

Since he could do nothing for them, he might as well join them.

Lyle reached for the flask. Surprised, Coven watched as he took a swig. "You realize you're going to have to lock us both up," he said.

Lyle smiled bitterly. "I'm not about to force you to live up to my principles if I haven't lived up to them myself."

"Ah-ha...what's brought this on?"

"I'll tell you when you grow up."

"You've been saying that since I was six."

"I'll wait till you're a hundred."

The two brothers sat together in a companionable silence. The nearness helped, along with the knowledge that if one said a word there would be another to listen. For a long time the only sounds were a few well-plucked notes, as pure as raindrops, and Aliora's rich voice filling the room. Lyle found himself leaning toward it, as he would a hearth fire, and waited to be warmed.

But it did not last. A low-pitched whistle cut through the air and everyone raised their heads at the noise.

"What—" Coven started to ask, but Lyle was already on his feet.

"It's a second-tier alarm--we've got company." Without another word, he ran towards its source.

He reached the entrance hallway and his echolocation detected the presence of the guard on duty, stationed in his alcove and keeping watch on the outside through a scrying glass.

"What's going on?" demanded Lyle.

"There's someone outside," came Kingsley Shacklebolt's baritone from the alcove. "A man."

_Not one of ours, surely, _thought Lyle. They expected no messengers this night, and every one of them had a battery of channels to go through before being given this location by the Secret-Keeper. Lyle felt the first strain of unease in his gut.

"I recognize him now," said Shacklebolt, turning around. "It's one of Arthur's sons. Percival."

"One of the Weasleys? You're positive?"

"He looks a match, though of course we can't say if we're being tricked."

A myriad of possibilities flitted through Lyle's head. Polyjuice. Illusions. The Imperius. Even another Metamorphagus—not likely, but one never knew. In any case, they had their ways of knowing.

"What's he doing?" Lyle asked.

"Looks like he's stumbling around, looking for the way in."

Lyle could not see or detect anything in the scrying mirror, so he relied on Kingsley's description. Indeed, the haggard boy outside was rooting around the grove of oak trees, attempting to find some kind of secret passage. His robes were torn and disheveled from pushing his way through the underbrush, and the look on his face could be nothing else but near-panic. Finally, the boy was reduced to calling out, "Hello? Is anybody there? Can't anyone hear me?"

"What do we do, Commander?" Kingsley asked.

_Isn't that the question of the day. _Before Lyle could come to any decision, he heard several rapid footsteps behind him, and Molly Weasley's voice called out, "Lyle? What's going on? Is everything all—oh!"

Lyle turned as she hurried to the scrying glass. "Percy! It's my Percy!"

"Steady there, Molly," Kingsley said, laying a hand on her shoulder. "We can't just let anyone in."

"But it's my son—can't you see? You know him, Kingsley! Surely you—"

"Yes, but we're not sure it's really him. Nor do we know if he's acting on his own or under someone's influence."

"But he can't be anyone other than my boy! Don't you have eyes?" cried Molly. She whirled on Lyle. "You ARE letting him in, aren't you?"

"Calm down, Molly," said Aliora, coming to stand beside her. "You can trust Lyle and Kingsley. They know how to handle these matters better than we do."

Lyle did not answer immediately; his grandfather had once bidden him to talk slow but think fast. Part of him knew they were putting themselves at grave risk by revealing the entrance. But then, it was also risky to let the boy go without knowing exactly how he came to know of this place.

"All right," said Lyle. "Kingsley, bring him in."

The big Auror put his hand on a lever. "Fast or slow?"

"He may be under surveillance. Do it fast."

Kingsley yanked the lever hard. The ground beneath Percy gave way and the boy vanished down a dark shaft. They heard his scream grow louder from beyond the gate.

Molly wasted no time. Before anyone could stop her, she threw open the double doors of the entrance and rushed out. Aliora followed her, but Kingsley came to stand beside Lyle. "Do I grab him once he comes in?"

"Wait for my signal," Lyle replied. "Let me talk to him first."

The big man shrugged. "Then again, he may have some useful information on the Ministry. He does have a high position there, I recall. Maybe we're looking a gift horse in the mouth."

"Tell that to the Trojans."

At that moment, Molly came in, supporting her son by the arm. "Percy dear, this is—"

"Lionel Bishop." Lyle stepped forward and grasped the boy's hand, which was cold and clammy from the night air. "And this is Kingsley Shacklebolt."

"Shacklebolt." The boy's voice was still chattering. "From the Ministry."

"Yes," said Lyle. "We know you're tired and have come a long way, but we would like to ask a few questions before—"

"I escaped," gasped Percy.

"Pardon?"

"From the Ministry. I escaped."

Lyle sensed Kingsley slipping away to the side to secretly perform Detection Charms on the boy. "You came directly from the Ministry of Magic?" Lyle repeated.

"No. Not the building. I meant escaped. From the government." He paused, gulping hard. "Walked all the way. Couldn't Apparate. Couldn't take a ride. Couldn't talk to anyone. Walked. Had to."

Coven quickly stepped forward. "He needs to be warmed up," he said in his Medi-Wizard tone that Lyle privately found amusing. Coven offered Percy his flask. "Drink this. Lyle, we should get him next to a fire."

"In a moment," Lyle said. "Percy, please continue."

"They were—we were—I couldn't take it anymore—I just had to—" Percy took one gulp, coughed, then took another one. Aliora came forward and threw her Cloak of Warmth over his shoulders.

"Now, now," said Molly, and Lyle could tell she was looking at them angrily for detaining him. But now the boy had piqued Lyle's interest and he intended to be thorough.

"Percy, what did you mean by you had to escape? What happened to you?"

Percy looked up, eyes wide and lips askew. "It was…five days ago. I was going to Minister Fudge's office that night. We were both working late it seems, so I thought I bring one last report to his attention. I went there and the door was ajar. I was about to go in…but I heard voices. So I looked in and there was a man in there I've never seen before. A tall man in black robes, with dark round glasses." Percy paused, shuddering. "There was…something not right about him."

"You heard what they were talking about?"

Percy nodded. "The tall man, he was talking to the Minister. He was giving orders. He was saying that…that the D-Dark Lord wanted the seal broken."

Lyle's brows knitted at the word. "The seal?"

"The seal to the prison of the—" He gulped. "The B-black Patriarch. They were going to unleash him three days from now. To end the war."

A dark and utter silence filled the room. Lyle felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. The Black Patriarch, the First Dementor. Captured by the Ministry years ago, thus enforcing the obedience of all his progeny. To free him from his prison in Azkaban was to invite a hellish retribution. "This man," he said, desperation creeping into his voice, "he was giving orders?"

"Yes. And Fudge—the Minister—he kept going no, no, it can't be done. But the tall man was insistent. He said—he said they had an agreement. Then Minister Fudge, he slumped down on his desk and started sobbing…

"The other man turned away in disgust. He turned to _me_." Percy gulped again. "He saw me standing there through the slit in the doorway." He shook his head. "I couldn't see his eyes, but there was something about his gaze. I don't know what it was. It was like he was looking inside my head. It felt cold. It felt like—"

He began shuddering again. Lyle said, "And what did you do?"

"I ran for it. I went back to my apartment, shut the door, hid on my bed. When I woke up the next day, I tried to convince myself I had imagined the whole thing. It nearly worked, until I found someone waiting for me in the kitchen." He took another swig from the brandy. "She said she was one of your people stationed in the Ministry. She proved it by telling me about my mother. Then she said I was in terrible danger and that I needed to get out of the city as soon as possible, because the Aurors were after me. She put a map in my hands and told me to go to this location. She said my parents were here in this safe house and they were waiting for me. When she left, I packed a bag and ran for it."

Lyle felt a thrill of fear run down his spine. "Did she give you a name?"

"She said she was Jane Wintergray." He paused. "She _is_ one of your people, right?"

"She was," said Lyle. "Until last week, when she vanished without a trace."

Percy gawked, opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was an "Ulp!" as Kingsley grabbed his arms from behind.

"What are you doing?!" shrieked Molly as Lyle grabbed Percy's shirt and tore it open. She tried to pull him off, but started as a single moth fluttered from beneath Percy's collar, rising quickly out of reach.

"Aria," Lyle said, and the little pixie zipped out of his pocket and hurled itself at the moth, striking the head with her tiny knee. The insect spiraled to the floor in a daze. In a blink of eye, however, it turned into a young woman in a dark robe lying flat on the floor.

Kingsley aimed is wand and shouted, "Petrificus Totalus!" But the intruder was faster. She yanked off a metal disc hanging around her neck and hurled it away from her. A loud thunderclap erupted from the device as it clattered on the floor. Everyone covered their faces as a bright wave of power spread throughout the room, and just as quickly vanished.

Lyle's worst fears were confirmed.

"Sound the alarm, Kingsley," he said. "Highest alert. They've just used a Security Charm Dissipator. We're in for a lot of company."

Kingsley nodded and yanked down another lever on the wall, and a loud blaring wail filled the stone passageways of the base. Percy simply stared down at the prone body on the floor.

"It's her," he said. "Wintergray. But I don't understand…"

"Jane Wintergray was an agent of ours," said Lyle, "an Animagus. In the week she was gone she must've been captured and placed under the Imperius Curse. They knew we would spot the tampering almost immediately, so they put her on you and let you bring her here unharmed."

"'They?'"

But Lyle was no longer paying attention. "Coven, take care of Jane for us. Molly, you'd better bring your son along. Everyone, follow me."

Together they strode down the corridor towards the meeting hall. On the way they encountered the other members of the Order, roused from sleep by the sound of the alarm.

Lyle did not wish for this to happen. He did not want to have to fight _them_, not after all this time. But in the back of his mind he had been preparing himself for something like this—they were, after all, now on different sides of the war. A confrontation was inevitable. He only wished it wasn't so soon.

"Gather the goshawks," Lyle ordered Kingsley. Goshawk was their term for trained militia, the civilian wizards who made up the largest part of their force.

Arabella, hair all sleep-tousled but otherwise wide-awake, hurried towards the clustered men. "What is it?" she asked in a hushed voice. "The Dark Army?"

"No," Lyle answered her. "Aurors."

A cold silence rang throughout the gathering.

"So," said Bernard Frost sadly, "the Ministry finally found us, despite our best efforts."

"You did a wonderful job of hiding us, Bernard," Arabella told him. "You've nothing to be ashamed of."

The sound of booted feet approached from their left as Kingsley reappeared with a battalion of men. "What are your orders, Commander?" he asked.

"We're retreating. They must have the Summit surrounded by now, with numbers far greater than ours. We have no choice—we must give it up."

"But Lyle," Marius objected, "without a fight?"

Lyle turned his sightless eyes on him. "Do you remember the banner Remus placed in the meeting hall? The _people _are the castle, the _people _are the walls. We make sacrifices for lives, not territory."

He raised his voice for everyone to hear. "Our objective now is to escape the Summit. Arabella, Marius, your job is to make sure there'll be nothing here for them to capture. Set fire to the library. Bring our most vital documents and destroy the rest. Aliora, Coven, Bernard, grab what supplies you can spare. Mundungus?"

"SIR!" Someone bellowed right in his ear. Lyle side-stepped away from him.

"You're to take the Aegisout your workshop and bring it to the escape route. No dallying. And don't bring _anything _else."

"YESSIR!"

Lyle nodded. "Right. I want everyone to the gather at the escape route in the meeting room in ten minutes. Go!"

While they scattered to do their orders, Lyle faced the home guard assembled behind him. "Our task is simple: we have to buy time for everyone to do their jobs. Huron, take five men. Your job is to make sure everyone's present in the meeting room by the time limit. Once they're in, your job is to protect them while they evacuate."

Said Auror saluted with his wand. "I won't fail you, sir!" he replied.

"I know you won't," he said, smiling briefly. He pointed to four men. "Your job is to defend the entrance as well as you can. If the enemy breaks through, fall back to the meeting hall. All the rest of you, wands out and come with me."

With that, the Order scattered to fulfill their functions. Lyle, along with Kingsley, led the bulk of the home guard towards the meeting room. The escape route lay behind the banner at the northern end of that room. They had to defend it at all costs.

"Why are we here, sir?" asked one of the home guards. "Shouldn't we defend the entrance?"

Lyle shook his head. "You must understand Aurors, goshawk. The only reason they attack the front entrance of any stronghold is so they can draw the defenders' attention. The real attack will be at—"

The sound of shattering glass rang out from behind the double doors. Lyle raised a hand in warning. Everyone stopped and fell silent.

More noises grew distinct: the gentle rush of night air seeping in from beneath the door, a few whispered words, the patter of several booted feet. Lyle gestured again. The home guard silently retreated a few steps as Lyle and Kingsley flattened themselves on the wall on either side of the arched doorway. Nobody moved. For a moment, silence reigned.

Lyle drew a deep breath, clearing his mind and allowing him to recall his combat lessons. The Auror fighting style was unique, stemming from the philosophy that at extreme short range, a wand was not the most effective weapon. Thus the style's forte—close combat.

The stone hallway shook as the entrance was blasted open. As the advanced guard of the enemy surged through the doorway, Lyle and Kingsley leaped to the attack.

The first Auror, rushing forward with a Wandshield before him, did not see Lyle at his right before it was too late. With one hand Lyle forced the Auror's elbow back and upwards while his other hand shoved the man's head down. Betrayed by his own momentum, the Auror flipped through the air and slammed hard onto the floor.

The next Auror trained his wand on Lyle, the wand tracing the patterns of a curse. But before he could finish Lyle clamped his left hand around his opponent's wrist, effectively stopping his casting. Lyle twisted the Auror's wrist and knocked the wand away from his weakened grip. He pulled the arm aside, leaving him room to step forward and drive his elbow into the Auror's face. As the man staggered back in pain, Lyle flung his arm down and hurled him onto the ground.

The third Auror, thinking to give Lyle a dose of his own medicine, took the opportunity to grab his wrist. But Lyle knew all the countermoves, too. Before his opponent could pull him into an arm lock, Lyle spun his arm in a clockwise motion, reversing the wrist hold at the apex. As he pulled the arm down he circled behind the Auror, pulled the man's own arm into a lock, divested him of his wand and used it to cast a Stunner on the man's back. With a grunt, the man slumped against the stone archway as Lyle snapped his wand in two.

There were two others. Lyle struck his rings together and found them lying on the floor at Kingsley's feet.

"All done?" Lyle asked him.

"Ages ago," the big Auror replied with a grin. "Knocked their heads together."

Lyle smiled back. Good ol' Kingsley. Always efficient.

Kingsley shouted over his shoulder. "What are you people gawking at? Get in here and secure the exit!"

His words jolted the home guard out of their stupor. They charged past the two men into the meeting room. Lyle and Kingsley followed.

Lyle chimed his rings again to assess the situation. The Aurors had shattered the circular window at the center of the room's high domed ceiling and were lowering themselves down, borne gently by conjured currents of air and landing on the stone table at the heart of the room.

"We must hold this room!" Kingsley cried as everyone drew wands. "Drive them all back!"

The next few moments came to Lyle in mental snapshots of motion. The air was filled with threats and defiant cries and the stinging heat of curses. Blasts of magic sent men flying, slamming into the bookshelves at the walls. Heat seared the air. Smoldering pages flew in a scattered rain.

The goshawks fought bravely, but despite their number it became clear they were outmatched. The Aurors were too well-trained, and their Wand School specialized in dueling against larger numbers. Already they were performing the dyad system, two Aurors back-to-back, protecting each others' flank while maintaining their assault.

Lyle fought his way to the banner as best he could, stopping curses flung at him with his Wandshield. One man leaped in front of him, preparing to hurl a hex. Lyle ducked beneath his attack then kicked out at his shin. The man's hex turned into a burble of pain as he buckled forward. Lyle hurled a Stunner and sent him crashing sideways onto the table.

Inspiration struck. Lyle pointed the wand at the stone table, but his spell was lost in a terrible din as the bookcase next to him exploded. A heavy tome struck him on the side of the head and for a moment the floor and ceiling changed places. Then someone was picking him up from the floor. Kingsley had his arm, doing his best to cover both of them with his Wandshield.

Lyle gestured his wand at the stone table. It rose with a silent command, barely an inch above the ground due to the number of invaders standing on it. But Kingsley caught on immediately. He too pointed his wand and forced the table further upward. Halfway up the ceiling, some of their men joined them. The great marble slab rose even faster

The Aurors, finally realizing their enemies' intent, shouted for their comrades to counter the spell. They were too late. The table accelerated upwards until it was only six feet from the ceiling. The men scampered like mice back through the window to avoid getting crushed. The last of them slipped through as the table hit the ceiling,

"Keep it there! Don't let them break through again!" Lyle ordered. His temple ached with every word. He disengaged from the spell and gingerly touched his hand to his head. It came away wet. That book had definitely been a hardcover edition.

Kingsley waved his wand over the wound, closing it. "Don't worry," he said. "I've seen worse paper cuts."

"Thanks." Lyle righted himself. "How long do you think we can hold them off?"

"No more than a few minutes. That stone's nice and thick and most of the home guard's holding it up, but I'm not pinning my hopes on a table."

True enough, a booming noise erupted from above them. The table shifted in place. Dust sifted from the ceiling and landed on their shoulders. Kingsley sneezed.

"Where on earth are they?" Lyle said through clenched teeth. As if in answer, his ears caught the sound of running feet near the entrance.

"Lyle!" cried Arabella from the doorway. "We heard fighting! Are they—"

"They're almost through," Lyle answered. "Do you have everyone? Bernard?"

The elder gent strode forward. "Everyone's accounted for save for Mundungus. He hasn't returned from his workshop."

Marius spoke up next. "I've got everything we need, Lyle. Supplies, brooms, Detectors, and I even managed to fit in a few Sunburst Lamps." He raised the contraption in his hand to display it.

"Good, we may need them for the Dementors. Keep them safe—"

Everyone jumped at a booming noise; the table above them shuddered, as if a giant had been pounding its fist on it. Pebbles rained down on them. "I don't like the look of that crack," said Kingsley, backing away and aiming his wand.

"We'll hold them off," said Lyle, "the rest of you to the escape route."

"But what about you?" Molly said.

"We'll follow as soon as the lift returns. Now get going!"

They needed no further warning. Bernard shoved aside the banner, revealing a wooden portcullis that rose at the flick of his wand. Beyond was a lift supported by metal wheels and heavy chains. The members of the Order hurriedly filed inside. Molly helped her son along, though Percy still looked about half-aware of what was happening.

Coven remained where he was.

"What on earth are you waiting for?" Lyle demanded. "Get in there!"

"I'm not leaving you," said Coven, shaking his head. "The others will take care of Jane. If there's fighting to be done, then I'm staying here to help."

"What are you saying?" Lyle could barely keep his voice under control. "You've had no formal combat training. Go with the others. You'll be more useful there."

"I might be useful here, too."

"Damn it, Coven, I'm NOT having this conversation. I gave an order for everyone to retreat—"

"You also ordered Fletcher to bring the Aegis out of the workshop," Coven replied. "I'm going to see what's keeping him." He turned sprinted towards the door.

"You fool! Come back!" Lyle made to run after him. But at that moment, the table above them gave an ungodly lurch and exploded.

Lyle was not quite aware of what happened next. One moment he was running for the door, the next moment Kingsley's huge hand grabbed the back of his neck and sent him flying backwards. The landing knocked the wind from his lungs, and for a moment he was too stunned to strike his rings. The room around him plunged into darkness, but he felt the ground shudder with falling stones, the air thicken with dust and smoke. He was dimly aware of Aliora shouting for someone to help him. Bernard shouting back that they must flee. The sound of the portcullis slamming shut, followed by the shriek of gear against chain.

Then came a familiar rush of freezing air, a crackle of cold power.

Someone screamed, "Killing Curses! They're using Killing Cur—"

The voice vanished into a loud gust of wind and a dull thud. Lyle felt his guts hollow. He could not move; the air felt locked in his lungs. And the wind came louder, and had the chill of a graveyard in winter. All around there were screams, screams and the sound of bodies falling as the men of the Guard tried to defend themselves against the unblockable. The curses seemed to be coming from everywhere, and the air of the room, once hot from spellwork, was now so cold it burned.

Someone's cry cut through the confusion. "Protect the Commander!"

Lyle heard several footsteps coming in his direction. He wanted to shout something to them, orders, warnings, but his mouth was as dry as dust and his lungs were empty. He heard sudden bangs of curses, a man shouting orders, the sound of Wandshields shattering. More loud gusts, more thuds. He gasped as something cold and heavy fell over him.

The wind faded into silence.

Lyle pushed the weight off of him so he could sit up and find his breath. Against his will, against a frightened, shrill voice in his brain, he struck the rings on his hand together. The image of his surroundings pierced his brain and the breath slid out of his lungs.

The men of the home guard were scattered on the floor. Some, like Kingsley, lay beneath the rubble of the shattered table, while others lay in a tangle of bodies. Lyle had survived the barrage only because these few—men and women he had trained with, ate meals with, traded stories with—had blocked the Killing Curses with their own bodies.

Lyle felt his mind going numb as he crawled towards Kingsley's body. Over the months he had come to rely on the big Auror to the keep the Summit safe, but he had barely known the man. Lyle did not know if he had a wife or a family. He did not know whom he had to write to about his noble death.

He could hear the Aurors lowering themselves into the room again, but Lyle ignored them. The images seared in his brain, as they had before when he'd witnessed Death Eaters being murdered in the street. For many years his eyes had been useless save for one thing, and they did it now without his bidding. Tears rolled down his ashen face.

Figures approached. Several wands rose and pointed at him. If Lyle could see color, he would have found himself looking at the Auror robes of gold trimmed with black—the traditional colors of purity and rigid discipline.

"By the authority of the Ministry of Magic," a voice rang out, "you are hereby ordered to cease all resistance and drop your wand. We will not hesitate to use lethal force if you do not comply."

The drone of the iron gears behind him made Lyle realize that his work here wasn't done. He had to buy his friends time. Otherwise, the home guard's sacrifice would be for nothing. With an effort, Lyle got to his feet.

A voice spoke above all the others, one so familiar that Lyle froze again.

"I suggest you do as he says, Captain Lionel Bishop. It would be an ignoble end for so decorated an officer if you did not."

Another flick of his rings brought Lyle the image of the man descending into the room. He recognized that lean and feral grace, those haggard, leonine features.

"Major Rufus Scrimgeour."

The old man reached the ground, bending his knees to break the fall. "It's Commander now, old friend," Scrimgeour rasped, smiling. "I'm Head of the Auror Office. After all, it's been a while, and those who've remained faithful have moved up in the world."

Lyle did not reply. For an instant, he fell back in time to the years of the First War. As had Mad-Eye Moody and Frank Longbottom, the face of the Major loomed large in his mind. He exemplified the best in the Auror's way: bravery, intelligence, unquestioned loyalty. Time after time the Major personally led the charge against Death Eater cells and brought them to victory. It was only when Scrimgeour announced to his command that they would adhere to Directive 4055—the free use of Unforgivable Curses—did Lyle finally come to see him as he was: someone not too different from that he was attempting to defeat.

And now they faced each other again, as two lions in a territorial dispute. The other Aurors closed in from both flanks. One word from their leader and they would take him away…or finish him here.

No. The Order needed time. Lyle had to buy as much of it as he could. Wiping his face, he got up, striking his rings softly.

"The last we met was…when? Seventeen, eighteen years ago?" Scrimgeour mused, scratching his chin. "My, Bishop, you've hardly changed, have you?"

Lyle motioned to the bodies around his feet. "My men had not been using lethal curses against any of you. There was no point in killing them."

Scrimgeour did not even spare the bodies a glance. "In this case, I'm afraid killing them is the whole point. We were ordered to silence the enemies of the State." He tilted his head. "I'd say they're rather silent."

"Enemies of the State?" Lyle said through gritted teeth. "Massacres are State policy now?"

Scrimgeour laughed, a harsh, barking noise. "Ah, Bishop. Still twisting things around, aren't you? It hadn't been difficult to see how unfit you were for an Auror's life."

"You've not changed much either. Back then you used the name of the law to have men do the unthinkable. You do so again now. Which of us is unfit for an Auror's life?"

"The State decides for us what is and what is not murder, Bishop. You'd have known that, had you been more law-abiding."

"The State, Commander? Not the Creed?"

For a moment, Scrimgeour did not reply. Lyle's sensed the furrow on the old man's brow deepening. All around him, the Aurors were starting to fidget. Sensing his advantage, Lyle pressed on.

"There is nothing more sacred to the Auror than his Creed. The Aurors's fidelity to it was never in question, not even a century ago when the Great Schism led many Aurors away from independent action and into the government. They did this believing only by cooperation with the Ministry can a better future be made. But now…now the Ministry turns us to murder, and we accede! We forget the heart of the Creed—the Auror is the Shield, tasked to defend lives, not destroy them!"

"The trouble with you," Scrimgeour rejoined, "is that you have difficulty distinguishing the past from the present. Even in your youth you harped on and on about the long ago Aurors, speaking as if you had been one of them. You never were. All you have are stories, and they are meaningless in the here and now."

"What would guide the Aurors," demanded Lyle, "if not the codes and laws from our own history?"

Scrimgeour spread his palms. "Why, the _times, _BishopThe times that dictate the mission, and the times tell us that in order to defend lives we must take some of them. That is the will of the law. As part of the Ministry, Aurors uphold the law. _Dura lex sed lex_. Where does that leave you and this little band of usurpers?" He glanced at Kingsley's prone form. "You do not build order, Bishop, you destroy it. I have no qualms in removing miscreants such as you. At least I have the stomach to do what needs to be done, and the world thanks me for it. You on the other hand—but what are you, anyway? You're not an Auror—you turned your back on our Order long ago. So don't think to lecture me about principled action, and if you should get the urge to do so again, remember that these men lie dead here because of your principles."

Despite himself, Lyle felt the words snake around his heart and squeeze. Had he heard them before? Yes, he had said them to himself in the darkest part of the night. These men, all dead; would his words still burn as bright if Coven had lain among them?

"Come now, Bishop," Scrimgeour cajoled, even as his wand hissed out of its sheath. "There is no point in fighting any further. You are beaten. Throw down your wand and cooperate. Show us where that escape exit leads. Otherwise, well…"

Scrimgeour raised his wand.

"Directive 4055 covers the Imperius Curse, Bishop. Either way, you will tell us where they are."

Lyle's hand curled tightly around his wand. _Damn him_. Will it or not, he was going to betray his friends. He had been beaten at his own game. Suddenly he felt foolish and small, like a boy before his schoolmaster. He felt his face burn, his hands shake; angrily he forced his muscles to unknot and relax.

Then he heard a whisper from somewhere near his feet. "Sir, the Sunburst Lamp. It's behind your right foot."

_Kingsley? _

But the big Auror did not speak again. He lowered his head facedown on his arm and pretended to pass out. In truth, he was shielding his eyes.

Kingsley. Good ol' Kingsley, still alive, still trying. Till the last breath.

And Lyle realized at once that he could not allow himself to give up. Not while there were others to protect. His comrades. The Order. Coven. _While they live, I can't give up. That's what the Creed means._

_Till the last breath._

"Bishop?" Scrimgeour called. "Still with us?"

Lyle nodded to him. Then very, very softly, he clicked instructions from the corner of his mouth. Hidden in his hood, Aria clicked back to confirm she heard.

With a sigh, Lyle tossed his wand onto the floor and raised his hands. The images died away from his head, plunging him once more in complete blackness. He heard his wand bounce once on the stone floor, rolling to a stop near Scrimgeour's boot.

"Smart boy," Scrimgeour said. "And now, the passage."

In reply, Lyle dropped to his haunches. He heard Aria vault out of his hood, felt the wands of the Aurors around him hum with power as curses readied. But they were too late. In the next heartbeat Aria had pulled the Sunburst lamp over Lyle's head and with her tiny foot kicked the shutter open.

Lyle could not see it, could never hope to see something like it outside of his dreams ever again, but everyone else in the room that had been staring at him did: a powerful opalescent light, bright as a dying star, but without an iota of heat. The radiance stabbed their eyes and they fell back. Some wands discharged, the curses bouncing off of the floor and the walls like badly-launched rockets. Lyle wasted no time; he threw himself into a forward roll and grabbed his wand, regaining his feet behind the dazed Scrimgeour. Lyle kicked his old officer at the back of his legs and Scrimgeour toppled back with a cry, but Lyle caught him with his free arm.

When the Aurors finally recovered moments later, stumbling and blinking their eyes, they found Lyle near the entrance, one arm curled around the Commander's neck, his wand aimed at Scrimgeour's face.

"Throw down your wands!" Lyle shouted. "Do it now!"

The men hesitated, exchanging glances of confused alarm. Lyle motioned with his wand; the tip burst into a bright blue spark, reflecting in Scrimgeour's pale eyes. The old man gasped.

"C-coward!" cried their second-in-command. "Harm him and we'll shoot you like a dog!"

"A coward, am I?" Lyle felt the words rise out of him, coming out in the knightly speech Aurors had used since Camelot reigned. "Is it less cowardly for any of you to kill men who were not trying to kill you? If I am a dog, then what does that make you?"

"How dare you!" cried a woman on his right. "You have no right! You're not even—"

"SILENCE! If you doubt my resolve, remember that the Commander spoke the truth—I am no Auror. But how I mourn the Auror name! How can you let yourselves serve a Ministry that has given itself to the Dark Lord?"

"He's lying!" Scrimgeour managed to shout. "The Dark Lord's return is fiction, a cover for their insurgency! Don't listen—ulk!" Lyle's arm tightened like a noose and he stilled.

"Am I lying?" cried Lyle. "Or is it the Aurors who turn their backs on the truth? Ask yourselves—do you truly believe the words of a weak Minister and a corrupt Commander? Listen to how they have deceived you! They would have you believe that there is no Dark Army. They would have you believe that this is nothing more than Albus Dumbledore's bid for power. They would have you forget that it was Dumbledore who fought Grindelwald Deathspeaker, who wiped that shameful name from our proud history. Yet you say Dumbledore is both betrayer and usurper?

"And if you still do not believe me, then believe your own eyes. Take a good look at the men at my feet. They were once bakers, bankers, shopkeepers, husbands, wives. Yet they took up arms to join the war, to take the fight to the Dark Lord. They were _doing your job_. And now they are dead! They are dead because you can no longer tell the difference between truth and lies. When the Minister throws you fetch; he flings you a pittance and you grovel with gratitude and come back for more. Before the Schism, the Aurors were once free men--branded vigilantes, rabble-rousers...but they had no authority higher than the Creed, no law greater than their honor.

"Scrimgeour would have you look at the law. You need only to look into your hearts to know that none of this is right!"

He faced them in silence. A change fell around the room, soft and sure as snow. Wands lowered, aims became unsteady, gazes flickered away.

"The word Auror is rich in meaning," said Lyle. "It comes from the Latin for 'dawn,' an end to darkness. But how can there be a dawn if we all struggle in the dark? Lord Voldemort returns. It is our task to stop him. So choose now, Aurors, if Aurors you still be. The Ministry—"

With all his strength Lyle shoved Scrimgeour away from him, slamming the Commander hard onto the floor.

"—OR THE CREED!"

A universal gasp filled the room. Lyle had left himself open; he had not even raised his wand.

But neither had anyone else.

"KILL HIM!" shrieked Scrimgeour, clutching his chest in pain. "SHOOT HIM DOWN!"

The Aurors looked at him, then looked away. Still no one raised a single wand.

"What are you waiting for? Don't be deceived by his words! He's a rebel! An infidel! Destroy him!"

Lyle felt a slight tremor on the floor and nearly smiled. No one had felt it yet. He sheathed his wand, crossed his arms, and waited.

Finally, the old man realized that no one was going to move no matter how he raved. Scrimgeour sprang to his feet, snatched the nearest man's wand, and trained it on Lyle. But Lyle did not try to stop him. They had reached the critical moment, and he wanted to burn this image into the minds of all who saw it—the Head of the Auror office, threatening a man who would not fight back.

"You have spoken more than your share," said Scrimgeour. "Too bad you can die only once!" He aimed his wand. "_Avada Kedavra!_"

Lyle threw himself to the side to dodge the curse. But he didn't have to. The ground shook with a powerful tremor and Scrimgeour's aim lurched. The trembling was followed by stronger one, then another, and another. Everyone gazed around, staring wide-eyed at the shuddering walls.

Then the West wall collapsed with a cloud of dust and thunder as the Aegis entered the fray.

The Order's Golems were an effective fighting force against the Dark Army's Weepers, but their stone bodies left them vulnerable to powerful destructive spells. And once the Golem lost a leg or two, there was no protecting the wizard riding it. So Mundungus came up with a simple counter-measure.

The giant took another jangling step into the room, and with a cry of shock and fear the Aurors hurled a barrage of curses at it. Every one of the hexes bounced off. Lyle felt his smile spread, and wished that he could see the light glancing off the Golem's polished skin. The Aegis, the world's first steel Golem, fashioned like a medieval suit of armor with outsized fists and feet. It looked comical—if it wasn't coming straight for you.

"Sorry I'm late, Chief." Mundungus's nasally voice sounded from within the Golem, coming from a horizontal slit on the giant's torso. He raised a gigantic foot and hammered on the floor. The Aurors scattered like surprised ants.

Someone clambered up onto the Aegis's shoulder, laughing as he hurled curses at the panicking enemy. Coven.

Lyle wasted no time. As everyone was distracted, he pointed his wand—"Accio Kingsley!"—and caught the big man in his arms as he came flying. "Fletcher—break us out of here!"

Shrugging aside the curses fired at it, the Aegis lurched into a run. Scrimgeour cried out and hurled himself out its path just in time. Lifting its fist, it hurled a punch at the opposite wall. A mighty crash and a cloud of dust followed, then the cool night breeze flooded in from the outside.

"Don't let them escape!" came Scrimgeour's hoarse voice. "Take them down!"

Still dragging Kingsley with him, Lyle moved backwards towards the Aegis, his Wandshield nearly bending beneath the stress of enemy curses. He did not have to defend himself long. The Aegis's left hand curled around the two of them, while the other struck the floor with a force that knocked Aurors off their feet.

"And we're off!" Mundungus voice sang out. "Thanks for the party! Sorry we have to leave early!" And with that, the Golem leaped out through hole in the wall and into the night.

Lyle gasped at the sudden rush of air as they flew in the dark, then the bottom dropped out from his guts as they plunged down the mountainside. The Aegis's metal boots skidded ungracefully on the sloping soil, while its arm fended off the low-hanging branches of trees.

"Hey, big brother," Coven shouted over the Golem's shoulder. "Fletcher needed a hand loading the dragon dung into the fuel compartment. That's why it took so long." He laughed and rubbed his head. "Well? Don't I deserve a medal?"

"How about a punch in the eye?" Lyle retorted. "I'm not letting you off for disobeying my orders!"

Coven merely grinned back at him. "Tan my hide all you want, but first you'd better acknowledge that this time, _I_ came to save the day."

Lyle turned away in disgust, even as he felt relieved laughter bubble up from inside him. They saved those who could be saved. The people would live on, if not the castle.

As they reached ground level, Lyle turned his head to look back at their abandoned base. The hole they escaped from was now just a dim orange dot on the mountainside. The Ministry would pursue, of course, and he knew that life was only going to get harder for the Order now that they were on the run.

But he wondered, too, if his words and gesture touched any of those who heard him, if there was anyone there who would begin to question, and perhaps find their way to the right side of this war--even if it meant turning their backs on what the Ministry considered lawful and right, as he had.

Scrimgeour was right, in a sense. Lyle was no Auror.

Except where it counted.

* * *

"A failure."

Scrimgeour's back stiffened. He was alone, having sent out the Auror contingent out of the room to secure the area, but not after severely reprimanding them all for not following his orders. Now he wished he hadn't been so hasty in sending them away. The voice that spoke from beyond the round window above him sounded mildly disappointed, mostly bored, but it was enough to freeze his tired old blood.

He turned and watched as the speaker rode a soft current of air down into the meeting hall. His dark round glasses gleamed with the light of the lanterns.

"Not a decisive failure, perhaps," the newcomer mused aloud as he landed lightly on his feet. "Not with the Order of the Phoenix scattering like insects from an upturned log. Still, a failure nonetheless--dismal, sophomoric, and ultimately less than pleasing."

He picked his way over the shattered remains of the stone table, looking about at the destruction around him. "Am I to believe, Commander Scrimgeour, that you are not as sure as you seem concerning your hold over your men?"

Scrimgeour held himself very still, as if in the presence of an angry cobra. "I am, my lord."

"Need you be further convinced to fulfill your every mission?"

"No, my lord."

"I hope to find I have not misplaced my trust in you. Otherwise, it is time for you to retire. And your rest home will be someplace very deep and very dark."

Scrimgeour felt his bones turning to ice. "Please. I will not fail again."

Gallowbraid smiled briefly, not a pleasant sight. "Go. Put out the fires. Save every document you can. And while you are at it, find me a room I can use, as I believe I shall be staying awhile." He leaned closer, looming over Scrimgeour. "Make sure I have double quilts."

"Yes, my lord."

The Auror Commander turned left through the arched doorway, led on by a will and a loyalty not his own. Gallowbraid watched him, then shook his head with a sigh.

"I doubt my Mesmery alone can kill so much competence," Gallowbraid said to himself as he picked up and dusted a heavy tome. "And why you keep company with such sentimental fools such as these, Alastor, I may never know. Ah, well. I suppose I shall have to wait here for your return. If you ever return."

So saying, Gallowbraid plunked down on a chair, propped his booted feet on the nearest dead body, and started to read.

_To be continued_

_Authors Notes:_

_1. __Someone asked why I made the range for combat spells so short, something like 20 yards. It's simple: the distance provides a limit. I wanted to have a certain physicality to the dueling sequences, something that can only be achieved when fighting up close. Besides, if you can solve your problem at a distance of 100 yards, it would hardly be called dueling, would it?_

_2. __As I'm writing this, I'm currently somewhere in Virginia, USA. Pretty far from home, actually. My company sent me here on a 2 month-long training/working trip, hoping the experience will make me a better employee. I don't know how this is going to affect my pace, but I promise I'm going to keep writing. Still, I can't wait to be writing again in my own home. _

_Yeah, it can get pretty lonely here._

_3. __Yup, Harry and Danny make a return in the next chapter._

_Up Next: Listener. Signals. Darkness marches. The Order decides. The Caracal undeceived._

_Chapter XXX: Discoveries_


	31. Discoveries

**The Phoenix and the Serpent**

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter XXX: Discoveries**

"So let me get this straight."

Danny ticked off his fingers as he trudged ahead of Harry. "You were locked in this pocket dimension for the last four months…with a sorceress so powerful she can wipe out whole armies… who's also a 1000-year-old vampire queen…who's also your great-great-great-great-grandmother… who taught you a new kind of magic that can demolish everyone else's by having the caster do… pretty much nothing at all. Did I miss anything?"

"When you put it that way of course it sounds stupid," said Harry. "Do you believe me or don't you?"

Danny stroked his unshaved chin. "I believe something must've happened to you," he said. "Something troublesome enough to make you leave me in the lurch for months..."

"You're really not going to let that go, are you?"

Danny flashed a grin over his shoulder. "I'm not even going to try and make sense of any of this. Let Dumbledore and the other eggheads figure it out. My job is to get you someplace safe and that's what I'm going to do."

This to Harry's mind automatically meant north, to Hogwarts. But they had been walking south west for the past three days, a journey much like their previous one: avoiding heavily populated areas by sticking to the wilderness. Danny explained that his chase with the dark beast and his flight from the Death Eaters made him drift far west from their original path. They needed another, closer haven, which led them here on this rocky, uphill trail.

They had had precious little sleep between them for fear of the Dark Army, and as ever every shadow in the night seemed to morph into the shape of the Dark Lord's beast. But for once, luck seemed to be on their side; nothing came to challenge them or hinder their way. The sun was setting on the third day of their reunion when they approached the white mountains north of Birmingham.

Harry heard the tiny popping of his joints as he squatted down for a short rest. "How much further?"

"Brace up, Robbie," Danny called over his shoulder. "We're almost there."

"You've been saying that since the day before yesterday!"

"Yes, but now it's less of a lie than when we started."

At the top of the hill they paused to take in their surroundings. What may have once been a river was now a shallow furrow scattered with thin trees and solitary boulders. The other side was far less steep, and here and there they could spot patches of grass, the harbinger of Spring. Beyond that the mountain range loomed, nestled close together like the battlements of an enormous castle. The only way they were getting over that impassable wall was by flying.

Harry shucked off his shoes to rub his aching feet while Danny stalked ahead of him to study each snow-capped peak.

"So…" said Harry. "The Order of the Phoenix headquarters is somewhere up in those mountains?"

"That's what Moody told me," Danny replied. "'Course, this was some years back and he didn't bother to specify which mountaintop. It's our best shot, though. Far better than trekking all the way to Hogwarts, I can tell you."

"I hope you're not thinking of heading all the way up there."

"The climb would kill us, never mind the Death Eaters," replied Danny. "I'd rather have the Order come to us."

He unsheathed his black wand and flipped the phantom wand from his left forearm. "I'm going to send them a signal, a little something Moody and I worked out together. He'll know it's me once he sees it. If he's there, that is. If not, then we're going to have a lot of company from either the Order or the Death Eaters. As a precaution, you and I are going to be hiding ourselves behind that rock over there so we can have a first look at whoever gets here."

"That's it? That's the plan?"

"'Fraid so. Got any better ideas?"

Harry sighed and shrugged. With a knowing grin Danny raised his wands. He sent three bright shots into the air–red, blue, and yellow–so rapidly as to look simultaneous to Harry. They were heavy flares, meant to last longer and to curve back down to earth. They never got to, because right before the flares reached their zenith Danny flung three more quick curses into each of their paths. The flares burst while they were still high up in the air, creating fountains of dazzling colors. Danny hurled six more jets of light, and the falling sparks seemed to rearrange themselves into a caricature of a skull over crossed wands, its tongue rudely sticking out. Harry's jaw dropped in awe.

"Alrighty, then." Danny grabbed Harry by the arm and both trudged to their vantage point behind the boulder. "With any luck someone's coming along in the next few minutes."

"Hopefully the right someone," Harry added.

Danny laughed. "Don't be so glum, kid. Either way, something exciting's going to happen very, very soon. I can feel it."

* * *

Contrary to what his former students believe of him, Snape was a patient man. He obtained most of what he wanted in life, if not by waiting, then by lying in wait. It was just as well. Here in the heart of the Dark Lord's castle, patience meant the difference between life and death. 

Tonight, his months of waiting would finally pay off.

The meeting room in the East Wing was the one place the Dark Army discussed its most significant war plans. The spare rectangular chamber had no windows and two doors of engraved oak at opposite ends. Both entrances carried permanent Silence Charms. The stones were marked with living inscriptions that undulated across the wall like snakes, at times merging to form small, watchful faces. These enchantments could detect the presence of all Listening devices, dispel invisibility, and dissolve any Disillusionment Charm. No one could even bring a metal object inside without the room blaring out a shrill warning. It was, next to the Dark Lord's personal quarters, the most secure place in all of Onyx Isle.

Snape's objective was to eavesdrop on this room. For at this meeting, after a three-month absence, the Dark Lord himself was in attendance.

There had been no explanation for Voldemort's constant absences in the past. Many were wondering why he had stooped to relying on Wormtail to be his mouthpiece. Some whispered that he was suffering from some kind of malady; others conjectured he'd been deformed in some way. But no one knew the truth of the matter.

Perhaps I'll find some clue tonight, Snape thought as he huddled in the shadows outside of the war room. Avery himself had not been invited to this meeting, which was just as well—the room would've melted his disguise in an instant. That Avery's presence was not required told him without a doubt that the discussion was meant for the ears of top officers only. It was imperative that he heard it.

The meeting had already begun, but that was all right. His job for now was to wait. He was not wearing Avery's face through Polyjuice, in case he arrived at the worst case scenario and was forced to enter the room after all. But with any luck—

The door of the southern entrance burst open and three men—Wormtail, Lucius Malfoy, and Augustus Rookwood—emerged, whispering to each other in excited tones. Snape held himself still. Now was the time. He would get no second chance.

Wormtail was the last to leave. He motioned backwards with his wand to the door to shut it. At that moment Snape silently pointed with his own wand, sending a current of air towards the entrance. It worked—the draft cushioned the door's swing, leaving it ajar.

Snape's eyes darted towards Wormtail, but the fool walked on, his attention focused on Malfoy and Rookwood's discussion. When they were all out of earshot, he whispered, "_Accio Neurospora!_"

Something small and dark flew out the crack of the door; he caught it with his left hand and stored it in his pocket. He fled through the shadowed halls, his hand never leaving the little tuff of violet moss he'd recovered.

_Memento Neurospora_, commonly known as Memory Mold. The enchantment of the war room could find any magical spying device made by man, but it could not detect the presence of this lowly fungus, an organism that was, by nature, a spy. While most fungi fed on moisture and refuse, Neurospora was unique in that it fed also on sound energy. More, the cells of its body stored sound the way fungi stored nutrients. Snape had planted it on the table's underside several days ago, and it had been growing there ever since. He had counted on the Death Eaters not knowing enough Herbology to recognize it. Only one other individual in the castle had the capacity to do so, but the Dark Lord was not prone to inspecting the bottom of tables.

In the confines of his room, Snape readied the materials needed to extract what the Neurospora had heard. On his worktable he placed his calcinator, and on the plate he placed some Mugwort, crushed peony seeds, and a little common salt. He turned over a nearby enchanted hourglass and waited. After a minute of heating, he added the tuft of mold to the mixture and waited. Soon the heat caused it to blacken and smoke. Steeling himself, Snape bent forward and inhaled.

His vision began to fog, and the room dissolved around him. He felt weightless. A faint ringing noise filled his ears, the kind one heard only in complete silence.

But the quiet was broken by a solitary voice close to his ears, as if the speaker was right there in the room.

"You are certain the Dark Lord is ready to speak with us?" Malfoy asked.

Another voice responded—Wormtail. "You doubt the word of the master, Lucius? You heard his summons yourself, didn't you?"

"Indeed, I have," Malfoy replied, but with a shade of doubt in his voice. "But he has not spoken personally to any of his men over the past few months."

"He speaks to me!"

"Through a veil, in half-light. And you must admit he has not confided the reasons for his solitude even to you. I only want to be certain he is well…"

"The Dark Lord is as strong and hale as he says he is, Lucius! You have been listening to far too many wagging tongues of late."

"Better wagging tongues than wagging tails, if you ask me," said a different, bored voice that belonged to their general, Rookwood. "We grow tired of waiting and you're not exactly stimulating company—"

The loud bang of a door being swung open. Chairs scraped as those present stood up to acknowledge the newcomer's sudden entrance.

"My lord!" cried Wormtail.

"We are at your command, my lord," Malfoy said. "What are your wishes for…?" He choked and fell silent. The others sucked in sharp breaths.

Then came the high, cold voice of Lord Voldemort, holding amusement and satisfaction within. Even in his state, Snape felt its chill on him like a gust of night air.

"You seem surprised to see me, my friends. What ails you?"

"N-nothing, my lord," Rookwood managed to stammer. "We simply had n-no idea…"

"That there was no truth to the rumors of my weakness?" asked that voice, holding both contempt and satisfaction. "I simply needed to rest for awhile, regain my…"

The rest of his words trailed into white noise. The mold had been unable to capture them perfectly. It took several seconds for the voices to become audible again.

"…never doubted your strength, my liege," averred Malfoy. "You are still my lord and my—"

"Enough," said Voldemort. "We must be brief, for there is much to attend to tonight."

The creak of wood as someone put his weight on the table.

"Augustus, marshal the main force of our army. Gather my children, gather the giants, gather the entire regiment. You are to march the army through the Forbidden Forest, and at daybreak, attack Hogwarts from the south.

"You, Lucius, will contact our agent in Hogwarts. We have the Ministry's Key, and Azkaban's time has come. Send our spy to unleash the Dementors. Have them march across the sea and pass through the Door of Fire. They will assail Hogwarts from the east. If all goes well, the school shall fall before the clock strikes noon tomorrow."

"Brilliant, my lord!" Rookwood exclaimed. "A textbook pincer attack! With mountains to the north and west of the school, Dumbledore will have nowhere to turn! The refugees will be trapped!"

"And they will have no choice but to surrender," Wormtail finished with glee. "Truly a master stroke!"

"Now, let's not be hasty," said Malfoy. "While scattered, there are still remnants of the Order of the Phoenix to guard the borders of Hogwarts. And the entire Centaur tribes still guard the Forbidden Forest. We need a reserve plan should…"

He stopped when a round of chuckles filled the room. "Is there something I'm not aware of?" he asked.

"You have not been to the North Tower recently, have you, Lucius?" asked Voldermort, the smile evident in his voice. "You have not noticed the—"

Another long moment drowned in restless buzzing. Snape shook his head angrily to clear it. Then…

"Speak nothing of this to anyone," said Voldemort. "For now, you have your orders.

Do not forget that the two armies must reach Hogwarts by dawn tomorrow. Their attacks must be simultaneous, do you understand?"

"We do, master," Rookwood answered. "We go to do your will."

"Glory to the Dark Lord!" cried Wormtail.

There came the shuffling of chairs, receding footsteps, two different doors swinging open, then nothing.

Snape's vision and hearing returned to normal, and the first thing he noted was the heavy thudding of his heart in his ears. He fell backwards on his bed.

What did all this mean? What had happened to Voldemort to inspire such amazement in his followers? And what lay in the North Tower that filled the Dark Lord with such confidence in his victory?

Snape glanced at the hourglass on the table and sat up with a start. Nearly three hours had gone by since he began! There would be time to find these mysteries out later. Hogwarts would be attacked by dawn. He had no time to lose.

Snape reached a trembling hand into his bedpost and unscrewed the knob at the top. Hidden within the space in the wood was a tiny piece of Indivisible metal. Quickly, he tapped the little cylinder against the bed knob, sending the coded message out into the ether.

* * *

Azkaban was built on a lonely isle far into the Northern Sea. The ocean in winter was the prison's first barrier; dark and restless and filled with ice floes, it could freeze a man's heart in his chest. This was of course assuming that the escapee could first breach the stony face of the prison itself. The walls of Azkaban soared a hundred feet high and every possible handhold had long been worn away by the lash of the wind. 

Azkaban stood eight levels above ground, and Dementors prowled the honeycombs of rooms and hallways. Beneath the earth the prison stretched two levels more, and here the worst prisoners—the traitors, the mass murderers, the necromancers—were kept, never again to see the light of day. But unknown to most there was a third level, far beneath the last, built into the prison's very foundations. No Dementors guarded this vast cell; none could even breach the ancient magical barrier surrounding it.

This chamber contained a sole inmate, caught in the cone of a single overhead light. He stood twice as tall as any man and thin as a dying tree. The robes on his body may have been beautiful once, but age had drained it of its color and ruined the ancient runes on its trim. The rusted torc around his neck seemed more like a yoke than a mark of authority. Iron manacles bound his feet to the floor and stretched his arms towards the ceiling. He was the image of suffering, yet no visitor would think to pity him. They would sooner shrink away at his pale, wrinkled, corpse-like skin, at the face that was featureless save for the deep black O of his mouth. No one would spare any pity for the Black Patriarch, the Dementor King—bound here through the ages to keep his progeny enslaved to the wizarding world.

The staircase down to his cell had been walled off since the founding of Azkaban, and his cell door was cemented shut and triple warded. The place was escape-proof, vowed the architect who had designed it. Yet seemingly from nowhere, a shimmering figure emerged from the furthest wall and stood before the Black Patriarch.

"Look at me, Hooded One, O Midnight of the Soul," intoned a high-pitched voice, and the Patriarch raised its head and seemed to see despite having no eyes. "The Dark Lord welcomes you to his army and calls on your loyal service. Accept this freedom as his gift!"

The figure raised its silvery wand and slashed at the air. A silvery key emerged from the space, marked by the emblem of the Ministry of Magic. It shattered into four pieces that flew towards the manacles. The chains fell away from the prisoner's limbs. The Black Patriarch lowered his arms and sucked in a deep, shivering breath, like a whirlpool sinking into the ocean.

"As per your agreement with Lord Voldemort," the intruder said, "take your children and go west through the Door of Fire. Go and claim Hogwarts in my master's name. Go and cleanse the filth that lies within. None can stand against you!"

One more flash of the wand, and the cell door burst open in a cloud of dust and rubble. The Black Patriarch surged through the opening, sending a loud scream echoing through the halls of Azkaban. His progeny heard and echoed his call. They emerged from the cells, boiled out of the passageways, swept as a black tide out the prison doors and headed for the sea.

Amidst his children, the Black Patriarch stepped onto the churning water and walked on as if it were solid stone. They were no longer slaves and guardians but a conquering army. And once more, he was their proud and cursed King. He had ruled a thousand years, he would rule a thousand more.

* * *

Lyle Bishop listened to the decoded message that Arabella read for him, asked her to read it again, then sat there quietly for a long time. 

"A-all the Dementors?" Marius Haggerty barely finished the sentence in his low, faltering voice.

"All of them," Arabella confirmed, seemingly paler with every word she spoke.

"How many of them are there?" Coven asked her.

She took a deep breath before answering. "According to the Mermen patrols, the Dementors march ten abreast and a hundred deep. A thousand strong. Azkaban has been unbound." Her voice fell as she looked at their commander. "What do we do, Lyle?"

Lyle did not respond. He let his awareness stretch out, covering the entire camp nestled in the grove of trees. They were many miles north of their former headquarters and many more miles south of the school. The plan had been to go there, join forces with Sirius and Remus's company, and consolidate their strength. But it seemed too late for that.

Everyone had heard. People looked up from their books, ceased setting up their tents and beddings, forgot all efforts to get a fire going. Their looks gathered to him. They were waiting for his reaction, for an assurance that everything was under control, for a single word telling them what to do.

Lyle knew what to do. He was surprised—and a little saddened—that neither his strategist Marius nor his spymaster Arabella said it first.

He took the note from Arabella, placed it on his lap, and in utter silence inscribed something beneath the message with his quill. Then he handed the letter to Marius and asked him to read it out loud for everyone to hear.

Marius did so.

_Dear Professor Dumbledore,_

_As you know, our spy has gone to great expense, and no little danger himself to lay bare the plans of the Dark Lord before us. We are fortunate to be given time to prepare. _

_I believe the Centaur Communes, acting as one, may be adequate to defend Hogwarts against the giants' incursion. But no army can stand against a combined force of Death Eaters and Dementors. It is my belief that the Dementor Army must not reach the borders of Hogwarts. It is very clear what the Order of the Phoenix must do._

_The Order will stop the Dementors as they come in from the sea. We will make our stand on the eastern shores of Scotland and hold the Door of Fire closed. By this we hope to buy you all the time you need, to either find an adequate defence against the Dark Army, or evacuate the children and the refugees to a safe haven._

_We know that this may be a lost cause for us. But we also know, all too well, what would happen if Hogwarts, and more importantly the children, fall into the hands of the Dark Lord. This thought alone gives us the spirit and will to fight to the last. I can think of no better legacy._

_I hope to meet you again in brighter times, but for now, I bid you farewell. It was a pleasure being your student._

_By the grace of the Godland,_

_Lionel Bishop_

Lyle faced the camp. "Mundungus Fletcher?"

Said man stepped timidly forward. "Sir?"

"I have a mission for you," Lyle said. "This letter will be signed by all those who will come with me to defend the Door of Fire. But you will not sign. Instead, you will take the Aegis and bring the letter to Professor Albus Dumbledore in Hogwarts. You are not to stop for anything. You will engage no enemy unless they impede you. You are not to rest or sleep or eat until you have given this to him by your own hand.

"Will you accept this mission?"

Fletcher blinked. "Um, I s-suppose so. Sir."

"Do you swear, by the souls of all present here, to fulfill it?"

"I do, sir, but..." He looked around him. "Have you gone spare?! How can you stand up to a thousand Dementors?"

No one said a word.

Lyle placed the letter on a tree stump that served as a makeshift table. He raised his voice for the crowd to hear. "I cannot compel anyone to join me in this battle. We have shared too much for me to dishonor you that way. If I must, I will go alone. But I leave this letter here, so that those who wish to join me may sign their names. May all who read it know that valor is stronger even than death, and they may inscribe these names on their hearts."

The gathering remained silent and unmoving. Lyle could feel the fear radiating from their bodies. Who wouldn't be afraid? Death was a mercy compared to a Dementor's Kiss, a fate that would shatter the resolve of the most battle-hardened man. He was asking too much. These people did not owe him their souls.

Lyle turned to walk away, but someone stepped forward.

Quill in hand, his face white as ash, Coven walked forward like a man woken from a stupor. He came to stand before the letter.

The words were out of Lyle's mouth before he realized what he was saying. "Coven, don't. I meant for you to go with—"

"You're my elder brother," Coven interrupted him. "You've always looked out for me. Now it's my turn to look out for you." He put his name beneath Lyle's—almost legibly. Then he turned his smiling face to the crowd. "You know my brother, he always has a plan for everything. So don't worry: if there's anyone to get us through this, it's him."

And that seemed to do it. One by one they came forward, filing past a bewildered Mundungus, to sign their names. First Kingsley and their band of Aurors, then Marius and Arabella, Aliora, Bernard...

Finally, Lyle could take it no more. He turned and walked several paces away, hiding his face from the crowd. He understood. They were not doing it for their ideals. They were not even doing it for a better tomorrow. They were doing it for him, and for their comrades. It was valor of the finest kind.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. "Commander?" whispered Marius.

Lyle smiled and turned. "It's just Lyle now, old friend. No more ranks. Not this time. We are brothers-in-arms."

"It's still Commander for me," the old man responded. "The finest damn commander I've had the privilege of serving under."

Arabella came to stand next to the two men. "I'm willing to go," she said, clearly trembling through her traveling cloak. "I will go with you. I've sent all my darlings away. They can take care of each other, I'm sure, so I'm ready any time. Just...please, someone tell me there's really a plan, like Coven said."

Lyle said, "Marius, do you have the Sunburst Lamps?"

"Both of them, sir."

"Then we have hope." Lyle put his hands on each of their shoulders. "The plan is neither brilliant nor easy, but it's all we have."

He paused before adding, "In the end, we are all we have."

* * *

"Didn't I just ask for something exciting to happen?" Danny grumbled, raising up to peer over the boulder. "It's been, what, a whole hour? Where is everybody?" 

Harry sat up and scanned the empty skies. Night was falling fast above the treetops and deep shadows crisscrossed their hiding place. The coming darkness worried him. "Try again," he said. "Maybe no one was looking our way."

"I will in a minute," Danny replied. "But it's just not bloody likely that they missed _that_. According to Moody, they've got eyes pointed here in every direction." He paused. "That worries me. It's not like Moody to take his time."

He sat down, leaning against the rock, and laid the Foe-Hammer on his right side between them. Harry's eyes fell on the weapon, and for a moment his thoughts drifted to Flamel.

Danny sensed this. "I took it with me because I thought I'd need it against that beast," he said quietly.

"I think he would have wanted you to have it," Harry said.

"Yeah?" Danny pulled his coat tighter around him. "Well, I wished he didn't have a reason to let it go."

Harry thought of saying something to comfort him, but sensed that Danny hadn't finished. Where others had talked, Dahlia bade him to first listen.

There was a long silence, then Danny said, "It sounds stupid, but I keep thinking, if I'd only been faster, if I'd only hit harder…he'd probably still be alive. He didn't deserve to go the way he did. And I wasn't strong enough to stop it."

He fell silent, grimacing, as if the admission had cost him more than he cared to admit.

"I know what you mean," said Harry.

"Do you?"

"Yeah. I saw him once more, back in the Crystal."

Danny raised his head in surprise.

"It was his ghost, or so I thought. He was telling me that it was my fault that he and his wife died, that I was to blame for everything that happened. For moment, I almost believed him."

Beside him, Danny seemed to shrink, just a little. "You saw…his ghost?"

Harry shook his head. "I realized it wasn't true, it wasn't really him. The real Flamel wouldn't say those things. He'd always been kind to me. Before he died he said it was his fault that he wasn't able to protect me. But I felt guilty all the same. And the Crystal took advantage of that, to test me."

He leaned back and looked up at the sky. "It made me realize that while I felt responsible over his death, I didn't have to leave it at that. I could forgive myself, and I could do something about it. I owe him a debt and I intend to pay it. I'm going to stop Voldemort." He turned to Danny. "Don't you feel the same way?"

Danny watched him for a moment, then broke into a smile. "It's only been three months!" He said, hitting him over the top of the head. "Where'd that snot-nosed kid who used to beg me to train him go?"

Harry shoved him away. "You berk! I was never a snot-nosed kid and I never begged you for anything! Why do you always have to twist everything I say?"

Danny grinned. "Because you're so uptight it's easy to make fun of you." Then his grin vanished just as quickly, his head cocked to one side as if he'd heard something.

Harry was instantly alert. "What?"

Danny motioned for silence. He slid back to a crouch and peered over the boulder. "There's someone out there."

Harry pulled out his wand. "See them?"

"That's the problem, they won't show themselves." Danny scanned their immediate surroundings. "Must be very skilled, whoever it is. I can barely detect him, can't even tell from which direction. But he's there and he's watching."

Harry did not bother to ask him how he knew these things. Instead, he shut his eyes and focused his breathing. When he opened them again, the whole world shimmered with the silvery presence of _aether_. Beside him, Danny was outlined by a fine, pale aura. Harry had long found out that _aether_ was most concentrated on a wizard's body, making one easy to spot.

Harry peered over the side of the rock. Nothing stood out from the faint white glow of their surroundings.

"I don't see anyone," he whispered. He briefly wondered if the elder boy was mistaken.

"Of course you won't see them with your eyes alone," Danny retorted. "You first feel their eyes first on you, like a faint heat on the nape of your neck. Wait!"

He squinted in the distance. "Look, by the trees to the west."

Harry stretched his neck a little and caught sight of a lone figure stepping out onto the open. The man in the drab brown robe was hunched, walked with a pronounced limp, and used a walking stick. It took Harry a bit of self-control not to jump up and start shouting.

"It's Mad-Eye Moody!"

But in the same breath, Harry noticed something out of the ordinary. In contrast to the misty _aether_ of his surroundings, the figure walking towards them was covered in faint swirling colors of active magic. _Numen_.

Harry caught Danny's sleeve as the other boy was about to stand up. "Something's wrong."

"What do you mean?" Danny asked, frowning.

"It looks like Moody, but there's some sort of spell on him. I can't explain how I know, but I'm sure it's there."

"You can really sense that sort of thing?"

"I told you I can. You've got to listen, there's really something wrong."

Danny considered for a moment. "All right, stay put. Let me sort this out." He placed the Foe-Hammer in Harry's hands. "Cover me with this. I may need my speed. Just make sure to aim really carefully, okay?"

Danny got up and walked around the boulder. He paused for a minute, simply regarding Moody, then trotted down the slope to meet him. Clutching the Foe-Hammer close, Harry watched as the two men approached each other.

* * *

"Danny, you soft-bellied little weasel!" bellowed Moody. "I wasted three months, three whole months chasing your tail!" 

"Did you?" Danny replied, smirking. "Really sorry about that, old man. I ran into a lot of interference along the way. But hell, I got here, didn't I?"

"You idiot, we almost gave you up for dead! I almost didn't expect to see you again after that fiasco at Flamel's. What the hell happened? How did—"

Before Moody could say another word, Danny flung a Stunner at his face. Immediately, the old man slashed sideways with his wand; the curse made the briefest contact with his Wandshield before veering off to his left.

"What do you think you're doing?" bellowed Moody. "Have you lost your senses?" 

"Oh come off it," Danny replied without a trace of remorse. "We both know you're not him."

The old man brows shot up. "What—"

A lopsided grin pulled at Danny's lips. "I sure have to hand it to you, you know Moody, all right. You got his walk and his posture, even down to the way he swivels his eye. His own mother wouldn't have been able to tell you apart. But you screwed up one vital thing."

Moody actually opened his mouth again, then closed it and smiled. "Danny, Danny. Fine, I'll play. What makes you think I'm a fake?"

"It's your wandwork. You can learn a lot about a duelist from the way he fights because he does everything by instinct, and a man's instincts can tell you what kind of person he is. You deflected my curse with only a split second's notice, which means you're skilled and your instincts are sharp. Just like Moody."

"Don't you think it's because I'm him, you ninny?"

"Moody wouldn't have done what you did," Danny replied. "Aurors are always careful not to hit their comrades or innocent bystanders--that's why _they always deflect curses up or down_. You deflected my curse sideways. That, ladies and gentlemen, is the technique of a wizard who's used to fighting only for himself, no matter who gets hurt. And so..."

Danny's wand came up in a black blur, pointing at the man before him. "Who are you, really?"

The man's smile grew big and feral. His form shimmered into another, taller figure, lean and pale and white-bearded. His long, flowing black robes stood in contrast against the thin snow covering the field, and the scarlet scarf around his neck floated in the breeze. Danny could see nothing behind the man's dark glasses, as opaque as a wall of night.

"You're him, aren't you?" said Danny. "Gallowbraid."

"It's a welcome change to have my reputation precede me, for once," the man said with a bow. "You, then, are Daniel Oaks, the mercenary Duomancer known as 'Caracal,' who has given my men such a difficult time these past few months."

"Oh, this is good," laughed Danny. "This is excellent. Moody's favorite criminal. I never thought I'd run into you all the way out here. The old man was right about you." He scowled, keeping his wand leveled at the intruder. "You're a right twisted bastard, playing with people's minds. Not good enough to fool me, though."

"Yes," Gallowbraid said. "A pity. This could have been much easier for all concerned." He nodded at the ridge behind Danny. "Up there, behind that boulder, is your unseen friend. Why don't you ask him to come and introduce himself?"

"Stay where you are, Robbie!" Danny called over his shoulder. "I'll take care of this!"

Gallowbraid raised his brows.

"Oh yes," Danny beamed, sheathing his wand and loosening his sleeves. "You're not exactly about to let us go, are you? Besides, this is just way too good to pass up. Won't Moody be surprised when I bring you to him, gagged and trussed up like a pig on a stick?"

The old man's smile returned and he folded his arms before him. "I've not had the pleasure of a duel for a long time. Very well, very well, you look like you might pose a challenge. I suppose if I want something done, I'd best do it myself."

"Daniel Jahred Oaks, Hurricane School!" Danny shouted. "Ready or not!"

Gallowbraid did not reply with his own Wand School, answering instead with a smooth, curling bow. Danny turned his own bow into a lunge, drawing back his wand for his first attack—

—and had only a split-second to deflect the curse that would have taken his head off his neck. In shock he dropped down and shot backwards out of spell range.

The old man still stood serenely where he was, arms crossed on his chest.

_How did he do that?!_

"Nice opener," Danny said. "You should've been quicker, though. You won't get a chance like that again."

Gallowbraid inclined his head. "We'll see about that."

On silent command, the phantom wand slipped out of Danny's left forearm. He raised this over his head and leveled his black wand before him in middle guard. Moody hadn't been exaggerating, all right. Danny realized he could not waste time testing Gallowbraid; if he was going to win, he'd best to take his opponent out quickly.

The snow burst into a white geyser as Danny shot the ground the ground before him with his black wand. He charged through it, simultaneously casting another spell on himself with the phantom wand. In a trice, three Dannys leaped out of the pillar of flying snow.

This was one of his favorite Moonshadow techniques: the other two images were decoys, illusions; he had really emerged from the left. The enemy had only one-in-three chance of guessing right and defending himself, and even if he had, Danny had usually taken advantage of the confusion for a quick victory.

All three versions of Danny closed in on Gallowbraid from different sides. At the last second, the real one hurled a Stunner at the old man's right flank.

Just as the curse struck his arm, Gallowbraid vanished.

All three Dannys skidded to a stop, gaping at the spot where his opponent should be. Their stupor was broken a moment later by a voice that seemed to come from all directions.

"_Flowing Water_," intoned Gallowbraid, "one of the favorite techniques of the Moonshadow School. You made a notable choice using a defensive skill as an offensive one, but frankly, I find your lack of mastery with it disappointing. "

He was _surrounded _by Gallowbraids, dozens of them, some with their arms crossed, some with their weight shifted on one leg, but all still unarmed and with that same wolfish grin on their long faces. Danny gaped at them, his doubles vanishing as his concentration broke. For the first time, he felt cold sweat break out on his forehead.

"You'd rather talk than fight?" he called out.

"I rather enjoy talking, considering I have ample quarter to do so," said the Gallowbraids."Come, Duomancer. Entertain me."

Danny lashed out with a fiery whip from his black wand. Four of his enemy's illusions vanished at the first stroke, six more at the second. As one the images drew away from him laughing, and Danny followed their retreat across the grassy plain.

He was rapidly closing in on one he strongly felt was the real Gallowbraid when blackness swallowed his vision. He stopped in his tracks, nearly toppling over. Damn it. His mind went into overdrive: _Momentary Darkness,_ a Nilsaber technique. Blind your opponent with a 10-foot wide circle of darkness and take him out while he's stalled. But Moonshadow had a counter.

In his mind he sketched a four-foot long square on the ground with him on one corner. Danny dropped low, spread his Wandshield with one wand, fired a string of curses with the other. He danced counter-clockwise to the next corner, ducked low and did it again. When he fired from the third corner, he heard a faint _chink, _the tell-tale noise of a curse breaking against a Wandshield.

_Found you! _Danny aimed both his wands and hurled curse after curse in the direction of the noise. More _chinks _rang out, followed by a grunt of exertion and the sound of feet skidding on dirt. Danny kept up the attack as he strode forward. In eight steps he was blinking in the afternoon sun. Gallowbraid stood some distance away, his battered Wandshield smoking. He was no longer grinning.

_I've got you now, you old bastard_, Danny thought with self-satisfied smile. _Got you right where I—_

Something burst from the ground before him and grabbed his ankle. His yelp of surprise was cut short as he went sprawling onto the ground. Red sparks flew through his vision. He heard groaning that he thought was his own, until he looked back and saw what was holding him.

The rotting, gray hand gripped him with murderous strength. The rest of the thing's body slowly emerged from the snowy ground. It was putrid and gangrenous and dead, its flesh sloughing of its sides, its milky eyes staring at him with an idiot's look of hunger.

"Ah, the arrogance of youth!" Gallowbraid called from somewhere he could not see. "I find it worth my while to kill you slowly."

With a jolt of terror, Danny kicked at the thing. It barely registered the blows to its face; its long green tongue lolled as it bent down to take a bite out of his foot. With a cry Danny aimed and shot a bolt of lightning, and the thing's scalp flew off its head as fell backwards, electricity shivering through its flesh. Danny rocked to his knees, gasping.

But he had no time to catch his breath. The ground was rippling around him. Groans came from everywhere, the smell of rotten, worm-eaten flesh choking the air. More hands tore up through the dirt as the dead clawed their way into sunlight.

For a moment, it was Danny could do to stay still—the terror within had risen to fever pitch. The undead were all around, he could not escape them. If he had run, if he fired without any thought, they would overpower him in a second and tear the flesh off his bones.

But he had been a fighter too long, and his hands always knew what to do even if his head did not. As the dead closed in on him, skeletal claws grasping, Danny leaped straight into the air.

Hurricane Grand Art,_ Shattering Skies_. Right after he jumped Danny hurled a Shockwave spell straight into the ground. The powerful hex did two things. First, it caused a tremor strong enough to knock down the shambling dead around him. But this was only half the effect—the spell's recoil doubled the height of Danny's jump. This added height and extra time it bought the caster was the secret of the technique.

Before he hit the apex of his jump, Danny hurled chains of spells down at his enemies. A blinding white light filled the plain as lightning fell in sheets, its booming thunder swallowing the groans of the undead. Danny did not think, did not feel anything but the power flowing from his arms and feeding his wands. He kept firing until gravity reclaimed its hold and yanked him back to earth.

He hit the ground hard on his side; pain burst on his left arm and wrenched a cry from his throat. The super-heated air carried an ionized smell. He crawled to his knees and surveyed the area with half-blind eyes. The snow was wet and steaming, and in places the ground was cracked as if it had been pounded by the feet of giants.

But there was no sign of the undead. Not one mangled corpse or a burnt body part.

_Tricked_, Danny thought. _It was all a trick. He made me waste my magic on nothing…_

Even as he thought this, footsteps came to his left, followed by the sound of someone clapping.

"Bravo, bravo," Gallowbraid said, "brilliant execution of a difficult art. Truly you are a Duelist beyond compare. The world will never see your like again."

Danny turned to see the old man just 10 feet away. Shaking with fatigue, Danny forced himself to his feet and tried to focus his gaze on his attacker. "I'm not done yet," he gasped.

"No, but you nearly are," Gallowbraid said as he raised his wand. "No more of your pretentious little Wand Schools. They have not helped you one bit against true, raw power. Still, you have proven yourself most useful. I could use a relatively competent servant."

"You're dreaming, old man," growled Danny. "I'll never serve you."

"I wouldn't be so hasty." Gallowbraid's smile curved deeper, like a bow being drawn tight. "How do you feel _now_?"

Danny gasped as he felt magic surge into him. He felt as if he'd been doused in ice water. Colors faded from view; his surroundings were melting into shadow. Gallowbraid's dark glasses held his gaze, blacker than anything, like deep pools of tar where dinosaurs had died.

His anger turned into a crippling dread. He could not fight this man, he realized. It would be like an ant challenging God. He had no chance of surviving. Better to serve him, yes—better to serve and live, because no one would care, no one would care if he died.

No. No, that wasn't true. She would never forget him, not even in death.

He did not know how it was possible—she was a hundred miles away right now, within the walls of Hogwarts—but he felt her cool, calming presence, her tender gray eyes on him. Death could not touch her. Death could not touch him either, so long as he believed in her.

And he would always believe in her.

Something sparked before him. The phantom wand glowed in his grasp, a small tongue of flame burning at its tip. Without thinking, he held it against his forearm and cried out as it singed his flesh.

It worked: the pain head cleared his head of that maddening fear and the world filled with color again.

Gallowbraid stared at him, his face bereft of expression. "It has been a long time since an individual managed to break through my Mesmery. I confess myself surprised. Ah, well." He approached, drawing out his wand. "I suppose you will have to die, then."

With a defiant cry, Danny crossed both wands before him and fired. Gallowbraid caught the movement easily. "Too slow!" he cried in glee, knocking away the Binding Hex. "You're tiring, b—"

His words turned into a howl as a second curse, hiding behind the first, caught him full in the face. Blood and bits of dark glass flew through the air; the old man staggered backwards, clutching at his eyes.

"Never heard of that move?" Danny said, smiling through his exhaustion. "Seagull School Grand Art, _Hidden Wing_. Two curses in quick succession, right into the enemy's line of sight. Hate to hit a man with glasses, but you didn't bother taking them off. Count your lucky stars if you're not blinded for life."

Gallowbraid roared in answer, pulling the shattered wire frame from his face with a crimsoned hand. He was wearing a mask of blood. Bits of black glass peppered his pale flesh, even littered the empty socket of his left eye. But his cancer-yellow right eye was unharmed and wide open, giving Danny a stare filled with venom.

"You dare," Gallowbraid growled. "You _dare_."

The silver iris of the Evil Eye gaped wide open. The air seemed to compress around Danny as the world turned a graveyard gray. Vertigo swept the ground away and he collapsed on his knees.

"You don't take well to fear?" Gallowbraid said. "Let's see you handle pain!"

Danny tried to raise his wand to ward off the curse, but realized that he was facing the wrong way when it struck from his left. He felt his arm snap like a dead branch in a gale and he fell down screaming. He cradled his broken arm, but another curse struck him and sent his black wand flying. Another came, and this time he was the one flying, landing on the snowy grass with a dull thud that rattled the teeth in his head.

Danny felt his body go numb. The last blow was like a hot brand against his rib cage. He could not move or even cry out in pain. His last coherent thought was to somehow keep fighting to buy time for Harry to get away. He tried to roll to a sitting position, but a booted foot came down, crushing his windpipe.

"I think not, Mr. Oaks," Gallowbraid said. "School is over." His raised wand flashed a bright poison green.

"_Stop!_"

The green glow dissipated from Gallowbraid's wand. He looked up at the speaker coming down the slope of the hill, a look of disbelief crossing his face.

Though Danny struggled to stay awake, he felt himself sinking into a black sea. Just before the darkness came, he heard Gallowbraid speak again.

"Oh, this is good. This is very, very good."

* * *

Harry came to a halt a dozen paces away from Gallowbraid. "Let him go," he said. "I'm the one you want." 

"Harry Potter," breathed the old man. He bowed, still keeping his foot firmly on Danny's throat. "And here I thought I was pursuing some ragtag agent of Dumbledore's. I never thought it would be the one and only Boy Who Lived."

Harry felt his body tensing and forced himself to relax. He was not armed; he had left the Foe-Hammer behind the boulder. He could not use it in a situation like this, with Gallowbraid so close to Danny. He did not go for his wand, either. Not yet.

"All right," he said. "You win. Don't hurt him and I'll come quietly."

"Oh, you'll come quietly, all right." Gallowbraid was grinning again, his mangled face filled with merriment and cruelty. "You shall do whatever I want of you. I shall present you to the Dark Lord and reap a great reward. And it will be all the sweeter, knowing that it was _I_, not _he_, who bested his greatest foe." The Evil Eye dilated once more, swallowing the light of the world.

Harry could clearly see the magic surging towards him in a riot of angry colors. For a moment he stood there, transfixed by the sight. It was only when it reached him, when he felt that alien will attempting to bend his own, that he remembered the danger. He took a deep breath, concentrating. _Numen _to _aether. _He thought of Dahlia close to him, watching him from the Crystal round his neck, and felt his fear vanish like smoke in a breeze.

The spell receded, the colors fading into a pale silvery mist.

Harry stared in bewilderment; he hadn't expected it to be _that _easy.

Across from him, Gallowbraid looked just as bewildered. "Impossible," he muttered. "You couldn't have just..."

A second surge of magic, stronger than the last, radiated from his Evil Eye. This time, Harry was ready. He willed the _numen _back to _aether _before the spell even reached him.

Sensing his second failure, Gallowbraid regarded him in frank wonder. "Extraordinary," he muttered. "Quite extraordinary. Such an unheard-of ability, and in one so young."

"Yeah, maybe you should've picked your enemies better," Harry replied. Confidence surged through him; there was no need for subterfuge after all. He drew his wand and said, "I won't say it again. Let him go."

The old man drew back a bit. "It seems I am gravely mistaken about the danger you pose. I can see why Voldermort goes through so much trouble to kill you. You certainly are a powerful wizard." He tilted his head as Harry closed the distance between them. "But still, too young to see your own mistakes."

Before Harry could act, Gallowbraid pointed his wand at Danny's prone form. Danny vaulted 60 feet into the air as if drawn by an invisible crane. He hung in space, barely conscious, suspended by his feet. The phantom wand dangled from his fingers.

"No!" cried Harry.

"There we are." Gallowbraid watched his victim a moment before turning his gaze back at Harry. "I don't think you can risk undoing my spell without endangering your friend up there. But I give you my word I won't hurt him any further, if you throw down your wand now and surrender."

Harry stayed very still, struggling to think of a way to get them out of this mess. Mentally he calculated his chances of undoing Gallowbraid's spell and casting a Levitation Charm on Danny before he hit the ground. He looked at Gallowbraid and realized from the old man's smile that knew what he was thinking.

"Come now, my dear boy. Let's not waste each other's time. Throw down your wand, lie face-down on the ground and put your hands behind your back. Or do you consider your friend here expendable?"

Harry gritted his teeth in fury and shame. He could not believe how easily Gallowbraid turned the tables against him. He flung his wand away and got down on his knees.

"There's a good boy," Gallowbraid said. "Now perhaps you see that skill and power count for little against experience. Fear not. I will bring you to Voldemort only _after _you've shown me how you countered my magic. I believe that will make for an interesting—"

He never got to mention what would be so interesting—something that looked like bright blue lightning flashed over Harry's head and struck the ground at Gallowbraid's feet. The explosion sent the old man flying backwards. Harry hurled himself to the ground and covered his head as debris rained down, and just in time saw Danny's form plunge to the ground. He cried out and reached for his wand, knowing he would never make it time.

To his surprise, Danny's descent began to slow. He changed direction inches from impact, began floating rapidly up the slope past Harry, till he finally reached a lone figure standing next to the boulder.

Mad-Eye Moody dropped both his wand and the Foe-Hammer, caught his godson in his arms, and set him gently down on the grass. He gave Danny a quick inspection, nodding to himself when he saw his godson was alright. Then his gaze drifted down to where Gallowbraid lay dazed on the snow-covered plain.

A predatory glint shone in the Auror's one true eye. "My turn, you son of a bitch."

_To be continued_

_Author's Notes:_

_As an experiment I wrote this chapter partially using a speech-to-text program, dictating via mike to the computer instead of typing stuff down. I'm still trying to get the hang of it (you should see the weird results I get when using wizarding terms like "Auror" and "Dementor") but it did improve the pace a bit, and would hopefully keep me from getting Carpal Tunnel Syndrome._

_My editor wondered how Harry managed to abjure magic as powerful as Gallowbraid's Evil Eye, since he hasn't had as much practice with it in combat. I explained that Singularity can counter any magic regardless of its power, because it deals with the very nature and fabric of magic itself. It requires understanding rather than skill or power._

_Up Next: _

_The dark tide. Eye for an eye. Paper boat on a burning sea. Freefall. Razgriz surget iterum._

_Chapter XXXI: The Settling of Old Scores_


	32. The Settling of Old Scores

**The Phoenix and the Serpent**

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

_**Warning: This chapter depicts scenes of violence.**_

**Chapter XXXI: The Settling of Old Scores**

"For the last time, Remus, I know how to cast a Patronus! What are you, my mother?"

Eager to escape his friend, Sirius strode up the grassy path of the seashore cliff. Undeterred, Remus dogged his friend's footsteps "If your Patronus Charms didn't resemble a puddle of spilt milk, then we'd all have far less reason to worry!"

Worried they were. Neither of them had ever fought a battle of this magnitude; not even their first encounter with the Weepers could hope to compare. Sirius could barely believe the missive when he received it. One Dementor was trouble enough—what were they going to do against a thousand?

They paused at the top of the path. Twilight was drawing near. The sea breeze carried the noise of the tide, the few faint cries of gulls, and the acrid tang of brine. To the east and south, the sheer edge of the cliff plunged 50 feet down into the roiling white water. But the east led to the open sea, while in the south was a small inlet bounded by another cliff, 100 yards away across the water. To their north towered the white edifice of an ancient lighthouse; to their west, the cliff path sloped sharply down towards a pale beach of fine, soft sand. Their entire company waited for them on the shore, watching as the tide rolled in. This was the only beach for miles around, a flaw in a fortress wall that was the unforgiving Scottish coast. This was the Door of Fire.

Remus motioned to the cliff edge. They trudged towards the lone robed figure facing the gray horizon, who turned at the sound of their footsteps. Lyle looked far different now than when they last saw him: his face was lean and gaunt, and even his blond hair seemed to have lost its luster.

"I've been waiting," he said, and much to their surprise, he embraced them both in turn. "It will be good to fight beside you again."

Sirius smiled back, but felt his nervousness grow. The Commander was hardly sentimental, and Sirius wondered if this rare familiarity meant that Lyle considered their chances of survival very slim indeed.

"It is good to see you again, Lyle," Remus said. "Our men are ready for battle."

"An army of Dementors, just my idea of fun," grumbled Sirius. "What's our strategy for this one?"

Lyle nodded towards the way they came. "Come and see."

He led them to the wooden doorway at the base of lighthouse. Marius and Arabella were there, talking in hushed tones with their heads bent close. For a moment, Sirius thought he saw Marius touch her cheek, then she lowered her head and disappeared into the building.

If Lyle sensed any of this exchange through his crystal wand, he did not show it. "Is everything ready, Marius?" he called out once they were in earshot.

Their chief strategist turned to them. "Arabella is overseeing the final preparations as we speak," he replied. "Bernard is done installing the Sunburst Lamps at the top level. Aliora is up there too, practicing for her performance. I advised her to conserve her voice, at least."

"Sunburst Lamp? Performance?" Remus turned to Lyle. "Exactly what did you have in mind, Commander?"

"Something very simple," the Commander replied. "Voldemort chose to land his army here because of its proximity to Hogwarts and because it provides an easy means of entering Scotland. He did not realize the potential advantage this place has for an ambush." Lyle motioned towards the beach. "Our men will wait until the Dementor army arrives, then surround them with Patronuses—as many as we can muster—as they come in from the sea. We will pen them in from the front and the rear. With the cliffs on either side, they will be held in the threshold of the Door of Fire, unable to advance or retreat."

"Sounds like a good plan," said Sirius. "And the lighthouse?"

"Insurance," Marius answered. "Patronuses alone will not be enough to stop a horde of those monsters. We've instructed Bernard to alter the Sunburst Lamps, charging them with the same positive energy of Patronus Charms. We'll flood this entire coast with light. It should be enough to dampen the Dementors' power, and allow us to capture them with far greater ease."

"Brilliant!" Remus exclaimed. "And Aliora?"

"Even if the Dementors don't fight, they're not powerless," Lyle explained. "The ill feeling caused by their negative energy will eventually sap our forces, drain us of our will. We do not have enough chocolate to stave off these effects. Aliora may be able to help us there."

He lifted his head, as if he could already hear her voice resounding from the top of the lighthouse. "We've asked her to play her most joyful, most inspiring songs from the top of the lighthouse, using the Sonorus Charm to enhance her voice. She will sing strength back into us and keep despair at bay."

For a moment, the two captains merely regarded the other two men with frank admiration. "Let me just say," said Sirius, "that if there's ever a strategy that can win against an army of Dementors, it has to be this. I congratulate you two!"

When neither Lyle nor Marius replied, Remus said, "You…don't seem too pleased with your own plan."

"You are a man well educated in the ways of the Dark Arts, Professor Lupin," Marius said without looking at him. "Is there any known way to destroy a Dementor?"

The professor shook his head. He got the point.

"Make no mistake, gentlemen," Marius said, his face gray as the wind-blown sea below them. "We are dealing with a thousand Dementors—_a thousand!_ We cannot hold back this black tide forever. Our job is to buy time for the people of Hogwarts to evacuate, or for Dumbledore to find other means to keep them safe. Our own lives are as good as forfeit. Holding off the Dementors is our only victory. Survival is too much to hope for."

They were all silent, heads bowed with the weight of his words. Then Lyle spoke up.

''No one escapes death. Any wise mother's child knows this. But it is the warrior who knows that there is no life in turning his back on duty. Even when the castle must fall, the valiant raises his wand and rushes to defend it. And he knows that in facing death, there is life."

"Well spoken, Commander," said Marius. He nodded his farewell and disappeared into the darkness of the lighthouse.

Lyle lifted his head, faced his two favorite captains. "You have forty men with you, we have twenty-six. We will divide our forces into groups. Eight men will take positions on the cliffs at either side of the inlet, twelve will guard the beach, and eight more will guard the lighthouse. The rest will stand in reserve. We will rotate the men every two hours of fighting to keep them fresh.

"I charge each man and woman here to protect not only their own souls but those of their comrades. Hold fast and we will succeed in our mission. Are we all clear?"

The two captains nodded in assent.

Lyle paused, then said more slowly, "May the Godland be with us, my friends. If we make it through this, may we find each other in good health. We have come a long way together. Let this not be the end."

With that, he turned and walked back to the edge of the cliff. As he watched the Commander walk away, Sirius wished with all his heart that he could see Harry's face just one more time.

"Come on, Remus," he said. "Wouldn't hurt to run through the Patronus Charm again with the others, would it?"

* * *

Barely believing his eyes, Harry raced up the hill to the side of the one man he wanted most to see whenever trouble found him. Mad-Eye Moody knelt next to Danny's unmoving form, cradling his godson's upper body in his arms. 

Before Harry could say anything, Moody put out a hand to stop him. "Don't assume I am who you think I am," he said in that same gravelly voice Harry hadn't heard in so long. "Ask me a question only I can answer."

Without thinking, Harry said, "How do you keep a Slytherin from drowning?"

A hint of a smile flickered on the old man's face as he quickly answered, "Shoot him before he hits the water."

Harry beamed.

Moody made to lower Danny down to the grass, but the boy's lids fluttered open. "Moody?" he whispered. "S'you, izznit?"

"Yeah, laddie," Moody said in a low voice Harry had never heard him use. "Sorry I couldn't find you boys fast enough. Not like you were making it easy for me."

A wan smile spread across Danny's face. "D'ja get to see me fight?"

"Yeah. Gave him a real beating, you did."

"I was rubbish, wasn't I?"

"No, no, you were fine, Danny, but you don't know how this bastard fights. You have to get in the first shot. He never plays fair and neither should you."

Danny nodded and shut his eyes. "Keep that in mind. But now…think I'll just kip for a bit…dog tired…"

"Sleep well." Moody lowered him down to the grass. Then he turned to Harry.

"Mad-Eye…" Harry began.

"You did well too, lad," said the Auror. "I'm glad to see you're alive, and that Danny and I haven't failed our duty."

"No, of course you haven't."

"I'll be taking you boys to safety, but I'd best take care of some unfinished business first. I know you want to help, I've seen what you can do, but I'm going to ask you to stay here and guard Danny." With a grunt, he got to his feet, drawing his cloak around him. "The young have no place in this fight. It's between old men, over old grudges."

Harry hesitated, then glanced at Danny's prone form and knew where his duty lay. The old Auror slapped his shoulder and trudged down the slope.

Harry spun to face him. "Mad-Eye?"

"Yeah?"

"Give him hell for me."

This time, the old Auror grinned.

* * *

Moody picked his way down the icy slope, breath steaming in the chilly air. It was difficult going, and it was no long stretch to remember that the man on the ground before him was the reason he had this blasted peg leg. That injury was only one of many, but it was the worst… 

_He'd been able to stop the worst of the bleeding before he passed out. The man with the round dark glasses had carried no wand, said no word of power, yet the Auror could not resist the order to blow his own leg to bits. Then the man left him to die. Here in this little chamber where Moody's lifeblood leaked into the floorboards and the filtering sunlight turned the dust into fool's gold—_

He had lost count over the years of the scars he'd earned from their battles, but they pained him now, reminding him of the many debts that need paying.

Moody shook his head to clear it, focused on the space before him. Gallowbraid was already on his feet when Moody arrived at the bottom of the riverbed. If he was dazed or in pain, the look of it fled from his face the instant they met eyes. Moody stopped a dozen steps away from him. For a long time they simply regarded each other, and every passing moment felt more poisonous than the last.

_The girl was five. Gallowbraid used the power of his Eye to control her, make her his spy and assassin. She wore a look of bewilderment on her face when Gallowbraid released his hold, and how it turned into terror at the sight of the old Auror bleeding on the grass before her, at the red-stained switchblade in her hand. How she screamed. And how Gallowbraid laughed, as if trampling on her innocence was all a harmless, practical joke. _

"Alastor Moody," Gallowbraid finally said. "The years have not been kind to you."

"Nor to you," Moody replied, "seeing the trouble you've had with just a couple of kids."

"Your little urchins will know twice the trouble they've given me once I'm done with them. You, however, will not be around long enough to care."

"You're not going near them again. Your business is with me, and it ends today."

"_This ends today," Moody said, facing the dark man across the pier. The gray waters lapped against the barnacle-encrusted pillars, promising a deep grave for the vanquished. Gallowbraid threw his hat into the sea and bowed deep, before hurling an emerald jet from the sleeve of his robes._

"Yes." Gallowbraid took a step closer. "That much is certain. Today we settle all debts between us. I have long grown tired of your mangled face."

Gallowbraid ripped off his blood-red scarf, exposing a burn mark that looked unmistakably like a hand encircling his neck, and Moody instantly remembered that he was not the only one who bore scars.

"Just as I thought," said Moody, grim satisfaction settling on his face. "Voldemort still has you like a dog on a leash."

Gallowbraid's grin held not a trace of humor. His finger traced the scar with uncanny accuracy. "This is as much your creation as it is the Dark Lord's. When you took my eye, you took away my best defense against Voldemort's magic. He made me swear fealty to him. This scar is his mark. You can never know the agony of it, of being enslaved to his will at the threat of death. Had it not been for you, Voldemort would be dead—"

"And you would be in his place?" Moody interrupted. "Stop flattering yourself. Even if you had your full strength you wouldn't have stood a chance against the Dark Lord, and I'll tell you why. You don't have the balls to fight him, and you never did."

They glared at each other, and there was no place colder than the space between them. The wind picked up, hissing through the thin dead trees and sending tiny curls of snow tumbling across the ridges.

"Each time I see this scar in the mirror, I think of the joy of killing you," Gallowbraid said. "I have dreamed of this day for 16 years. I have dreamed of what I would say, what I would do, and what the outcome would be."

His smile vanished like mist. "I will beat you to the ground, Alastor. I will take my knife and with it pry the Wadjet from its socket while I listen to your screams. I will take your other eye, to crush beneath my boot. Finally, I will take my time slicing away your remaining limbs. You will cry until your throat gives out, or until I cut off your head. They will have to carry you home in little baskets."

"You bore me, Gallowbraid." Moody drew out his trunk from his coat pocket and threw it, full-sized, onto the ground. "_Seven_," he said, and the lid popped open.

"You're not the only one who's looked forward to this day," Moody went on, tilting the trunk forward so that his enemy could see the black pit within. "I made this compartment just for you. The walls are lined with oricalcum, so you'll never be able to Disapparate or blast your way out. And you know how cold oricalcum feels, don't you? So cold it burns. I'm going to leave you in there, writhing and wailing in the dark, listening to you own echoes, until I finally let you out." He narrowed his eyes. "_If _I remember to let you out."

Gallowbraid inclined his head. "And this is assuming we don't just kill each other outright, yes?"

Moody gave him a grim smile. "Fair enough."

"Indeed," Gallowbraid agreed. "Neither of us has given the other quarter in battle."

"I turn my back on you once and I'd be dead."

"Would you have it any other way?"

_The girl was five. As a reward for her service, Gallowbraid put her to sleep and planted a recurring nightmare in her brain. Months in St. Mungo's, lying in bed, thrashing and weeping, begging her parents not to kill her, their own daughter. Months before they finally managed to wake her, and even then she was never the same._

"No." Moody flung his hat away and loosened his coat. "No, I don't."

The two men drew wands without bothering to bow to each other. This was, after all, not a new duel—just one they'd never finished.

"Your death is as sure as daybreak, Alastor," Gallowbraid intoned. "I have seen you fight too many times. I know all your tricks. And while you have spent the intervening years growing soft in retirement, I have honed and sharpened my skills for this very day."

"Seems like I've heard this speech before," Moody answered, "and after all these years you've never been able to back it up. You'd do well to remember: your Mesmery and mind tricks don't work on _me_. As long as I have this Eye, I can see through them all."

Gallowbraid drew something out from his pocket. "That's why I planned something new for you, Auror."

Moody's hand tightened around his wand, but there was no forthcoming attack—yet. In Gallowbraid's hand were stacked three amber-colored gemstones, each an inch thick and wide as his palm. The center facet was flat and shiny as a mirror.

"What in the world…?" muttered Moody.

"The Eyes of Koschei," said Gallowbraid. "A trio of artifacts I chanced upon while exploring Russia. I'd explain, but a demonstration would be more illuminating, wouldn't you s—?"

With a roar, Moody sprang forward and hurled a Stunner straight for Gallowbraid's heart. The curse never reached its target. Three feet from Gallowbraid it went careening into a different direction.

Moody blinked. One of the gems hovered before his enemy as if held by an invisible hand.

Gallowbraid smiled at Moody's look of astonishment. "Rather effective, isn't it? A duelist may take several years to learn how to block and reflect curses, only to be taken down by a shot in the back. But these gems make blocking irrelevant. Semi-sentient, cooperative…together we form a hive mind, with the sole purpose of preserving my life."

The other two gemstones sprang into the air and the three artifacts began a slow circling dance around Gallowbraid's body. "Care to try again, Auror?"

With a snarl, Moody threw a quick combination of curses. The gems knocked two of them away; the third sent the last one hurtling back towards him. The Auror had just enough time to dodge to the side, grimacing as his own spell singed his shoulder. He caught his balance just as Gallowbraid, face filled with merriment, raised his wand and shouted, "Crucio!"

Moody ducked beneath the attack, felt the heat on his scalp before the curse shattered against his trunk behind him. He threw himself behind the trunk and slouched. His joints ached with the effort; his mouth tasted the bitter tang of adrenaline.

Gallowbraid's laugh rang out, filling the gunmetal sky. "Do you think that wooden box of yours can protect you?"

Moody's eyes widened as one of the gems flashed into view above and to his left. On instinct alone he brought up his Wandshield, split seconds before Gallowbraid's curse rebounded off the gem and slammed into his defense. The impact made the bones in his forearm quiver like a tuning fork. There was no time to recover; the second gemstone appeared to his right and sent another curse screaming his way. He turned his Wandshield just in time to catch it, heard that telltale chink that told him it wasn't going to take another shot.

He struck his left fist against the back of his trunk. "_Two!_" he cried. The lid popped open as the third gemstone appeared directly above him. Moody rolled to his right, felt snow and dirt rain on him as the ground he'd been lying on exploded. He stopped rolling four feet away from his trunk and jabbed at it with his wand. "_Accio shield_!"

The floating metal disc he'd used to carry himself on his journeys, a gift from a German friend, darted out of the first compartment and hurtled towards him. He caught the strap of the shield as it whistled past him and let it drag him rapidly away from the gemstones. Gripping his wand between his teeth, Moody gripped the shield with both hands and hefted himself to lie on his stomach. Three more curses rebounded towards him, but only struck the trail he left on the thin layer of snow.

Somewhere behind, Gallowbraid shouted, "This is the first time I've seen your back to me! Is running away an Auror technique, Alastor?"

Without answering, Moody steered the shield towards a nearby copse of dead trees. He had to hide now. He had to—

—_Take cover behind the trees, stay as still as the shadows, as the Death Eater squad hovered on their brooms, their wandlights scouring the area. Moody flatted himself against the grass while the men spread out through the forest. Through his All-Seeing Eye, Moody could see Gallowbraid on the far-off hill, watching the proceedings with undisguised glee—_

"Where are you, Alastor?"

Gallowbraid's steps were slow and measured as he walked along the perimeter of the copse of trees, all the while the Eyes of Koschei floated about him in a dreaming circle. His one dark eye searched each tree, and his wand did quick little swings in his hand.

Moody held himself very still as he watched Gallowbraid search for him. The old Auror could tell from the movement of his enemy's eyes what Gallowbraid was thinking: that Moody had disguised himself as one of the dead trees. He hadn't; Moody had camouflaged himself as a snow-covered boulder, one of many that littered the area just outside the copse. Moody was exploiting the Jagan's weakness—while the Evil Eye could work illusions, it was useless in seeing through them.

"You're not thinking of staying hidden all night, I hope." Gallowbraid called out. "Does your high and mighty Code commend hiding from the enemy?" At every tree, he hurled a jet of flame from his wand, moving on once he was satisfied that it was nothing more than dead wood. Moody quickly calculated his chances for an ambush. Gallowbraid was strolling along the other side of the circle of trees, too far for a clear shot. And he dared not give away his position without a sure hit.

"Will you still cower and hide while I go and maim your two little friends, Auror?" shouted Gallowbraid, impatience tugging at his voice. He'd torched six trees and still no sign of his adversary.

Moody realized that his enemy was extremely sure of his own defense. Could those gems floating around him fend off an attack from behind? If so, he couldn't risk an ambush. He'd be cut down as soon as he showed himself.

My only chance, he thought, is to get around them.

Moody jabbed his wand in the direction of his trunk and spoke a mental command. Some distance away, unknown to Gallowbraid, the sixth compartment opened.

"Show yourself, damn you!" Gallowbraid incinerated two more trees in his path, filling the twilit grove with a billowing orange glow. "I've wasted enough time! If you—"

A cloaked figure shot out from behind a boulder, racing towards the nearby slope. With a cry, Gallowbraid unleashed a curse. The red bolts found its mark on the person's back, throwing it forward onto the ground. Sensing a quick victory, he ran to his fallen victim and flung the cloak away.

The iron shield lay unscratched on disturbed blanket of snow.

"Over here," called Moody from behind him.

Incensed, Gallowbraid spun to train his wand against his enemy, but a strange sound caught his attention. He'd heard it before, that terrible noise that at once sounded like angry buzzing and the crackling of dry leaves in an open flame. Fire wasps.

Moody grinned savagely as a tree across the grove ignited into orange flames. Gallowbraid just stood there, frozen by the sight of a massive burning cloud rushing at him. _Roast him, boys_.

But as the fire wasps closed in, Gallowbraid pulled his cloak against him, turned on the spot, and vanished. With no other victim, the wasps fell upon the floating gems. The Eyes of Koschei floated on a circle, ignorant and unharmed. Cursing, Moody scanned the area for his enemy and spotted him reappearing on the other side of the grove. The gems too sensed their master's presence and darted towards him, the wasps in hot pursuit.

Gallowbraid held his wand on his right side as if it were a sheathed sword. He roared and drew it in a forward slash. A whirlwind emerged from the motion of his arm and sped towards the burning cloud. The wasps had no chance. The vortex drew them in, snuffed them out with loud hiss.

Gallowbraid's eyes found Moody's. "You've tried that trick on me before," he said, "back when you ambushed me on the Thames docks. I very nearly did not survive. Did you think after all this time I would not have a countermeasure?"

Moody Summoned his trunk; it hurtled past the smoke and crashed at his feet. "You'll be needin' a lot of countermeasures today," he replied. "You've got nowhere to go. I can see your every move."

"Now you see me," Gallowbraid said, smiling, "and now you don't."

The tip of his wand exploded with brilliant white light. Moody felt as if he'd been stabbed in the eyes. Grunting in pain, he blocked his face with his arm and raised a Wandshield.

Again instinct saved him; he had not raised it for a second before a curse smashed into his defense. Once again, he ducked behind his trunk.

"Show me something new, Auror!" Gallowbraid laughed. He lobbed another curse that made Moody's trunk slam painfully against his body.

Moody could not see anything beyond a burning white haze. But he slammed his fist against his trunk and shouted "_Five_!" and reached in before the lid had come all the way open. Moments later, a spherical metal object came flying out from behind the trunk.

"Snooze Grenades?!" Incredulity did not keep Gallowbraid from leaping backwards as the object burst into a golden cloud of dust. "You still rely on these non-lethal toys?"

Moody tossed two more grenades at the general direction of Gallowbraid's voice before heaving himself into the trunk's compartment. "_Up!_" he commanded, and the ironwood box vaulted 60 feet into the air.

Gallowbraid snarled at the sight–he could not reach Moody, but Moody could reach him. As if confirming this, five grenades rained down like hail. With a mental command, he sent the Eyes of Koschei to intercept. The three gems managed to knock aside one each and he managed to blow another away with a curse. The last one he deftly caught with his left hand and pitched over his shoulder, where it exploded harmlessly behind him. When he turned his sights back up, a glittering cloud shrouded the trunk. He hissed in annoyance and waited for Moody's next attack.

To his surprise, four identical trunks fell out of the cloud and crashed onto the ground around him. Too late he realized Moody's plan—they gas was only a cover for the real attack. When the lid of the one directly before him twitched slightly, he threw a hex at it. The box vanished on contact, and simultaneously, the one to his left popped open.

The two men moved at the same time; two curses sailed from opposite directions and collided midway in a terrific explosion. The blast flung Gallowbraid onto his back and hurled Moody out of his box.

For a long moment, the two combatants lay on the ground, sweating and breathing heavily.

Gallowbraid was the first to sit up. "That was…very…sneaky."

"No sneakier…than you are," Moody gasped, struggling to his feet.

"You came out of retirement for this?"

"Worst mistake of my life to date."

They stood up on unsteady feet, facing each other, wands at the ready.

"Again?"

"Again."

With a mighty roar, both men charged.

* * *

It would have been clear to anyone watching that the battle had long ceased to be a duel. 

There was no show of elegant techniques, no pride in one's mastery of the wand. Moody and Gallowbraid fought an all-out brawl, a battle guided only by instinct. Both men employed every inch of their cunning and skill, every trick they learned over their long, dissimilar years into demolishing each other.

Try as he might, Moody could not pierce Gallowbraid's defense. Each time the old Auror attacked to the right he was met an impregnable Wandshield. If he came from the left, exploiting the blind spot created by Gallowbraid's missing right eye, one of the floating gems was there to ward off his curse. On the other hand, it was all Gallowbraid could do to defend himself. The fury of Moody's assault was terrifying to behold; one attack followed the other so well it left Gallowbraid with no room to sneak in his own.

Both ran out of breath after fifteen straight minutes of fighting. The air around them steamed and smelled of burnt hair and clothing, the snow had turned into rivulets of tepid water. Neither man noticed.

"I admit," wheezed Gallowbraid, "this is getting harder to do year after year."

"Ready…to drop dead?" Moody managed to smirk despite his exhaustion. "Easier for both of us."

"I will die in bed, Auror." Gallowbraid straightened, raised his wand overhead. The Eyes of Koschei wheeled around him. "And I'll make you sleep in the dirt!"

"We'll see about that!"

They clashed again, magical bolts shredding the air around them. Thunder roared in their ears, bright spells left phantom colors streaking before their eyes.

Moody decided to take a gamble. Stepping backwards from Gallowbraid's counterattack, he pretended to lose his footing and dropped to one knee. Sensing his advantage, his enemy closed in for the kill. Moody instantly hurled a handful of melted snow at Gallowbraid's face. Gallowbraid fell back with a hoarse shout; snow had gotten into the empty socket of his eye, and he shook his head in an effort to get it out. Grabbing the opening, Moody shot forward, wand pointed like a dagger to Gallowbraid's heart.

One of the floating gems appeared before him right as he was casting his spell. Moody saw it clearly, hovering less than an inch before the tip of his wand, but he was too late to stop. The curse emerged from his wand and instantly rebounded back inside. His wand began to vibrate violently, sputtering angry red sparks from the tip like a defective firework. Without hesitating, Moody threw it on the ground in front of Gallowbraid, who had recovered and was advancing on him again.

The wand exploded in a blinding yellow flash. It was completely harmless, but in his surprise Gallowbraid raised both arms to ward away the debris. Moody charged forward and grabbed the wrist of his wand arm.

The electric shock filled Moody's whole body before his brain could even register the pain. He felt as if a hundred needles had stabbed him at once. He heard himself screaming through a mouth that had clamped itself shut, and suddenly he was lying on his back on the snow with his muscles twitching and jumping.

Somewhere above him, he heard Gallowbraid's amused voice. "You and your Auror tricks. 'Take the wrist, take the wizard?' You think I wouldn't prepare for that eventuality?"

Moody felt warm spit hit his cheek, saw the remains of a burnt-out bracelet landing beside his head. A dim shape bent over him. "Now," Gallowbraid breathed as his hand circled Moody's neck, "let's have that Eye."

Moody mind's blazed with fury. With the force of will alone he raised his arm and closed his hand around the Ministry Apparation Pass hanging from Gallowbraid's neck.

He felt the world compress around him, blurring his vision and pushing the air out of his lungs. It was as if he'd plunged into deep, dark water. He was sure Gallowbraid felt it too.

An instant later, time and space reverted to their places. The ground had vanished from beneath them, and the stars and the winter moon beamed from above. Both men hung in space for a heartbeat, then began to fall.

They were surrounded by clouds.

The wind was roaring like a dragon in their ears, but he heard Gallowbraid's shrill scream through it anyway. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

Moody began to laugh, a high, mad sound of satisfaction. "WHAT DO YOU THINK, ANDROS? I'VE TAKEN US 3,000 FEET STRAIGHT UP INTO THE AIR!"

Gallowbraid's pale face registered only shock and incredulity. "YOU'RE INSANE! YOU'RE UTTERLY MAD!"

"AND YOU'RE FINISHED!" Moody bellowed back. "YOU WANT TO TRY APPARATING BACK TO THE GROUND, GO AHEAD AND DO IT! YOU'LL BE REAPPEARING AT THE SAME SPEED YOU'RE IN NOW!"

Gallowbraid grasped his neck with desperate strength. "I'LL KILL YOU!"

Moody used his remaining strength to grab Gallowbraid's arm. They whirled and struggled through the air, shouting unintelligibly as they wrestled for the only thing that could save their lives—Gallowbraid's wand.

They couldn't tell, but the earth was just 2,900 feet away.

Moody shoved hard at Gallowbraid, but could not break his enemy's grip on his neck, and his effort caused them spin and whirl through the air. He could no longer tell sky from earth. All he knew was that they were falling further with every moment they wasted fighting.

They were 2,600 feet from the ground.

Moody had no intention of letting go, not when he could end it all here. It was a game of nerve. He was waiting to exploit Gallowbraid's one weakness—the man was afraid to die. If Gallowbraid broke first, if his grip weakened with panic, Moody could wrest control of the wand and save himself.

And if neither of them broke, well, at least all debts would be settled once they hit the ground.

They passed 2,400 feet…then 2,200… 2,000…

Gallowbraid glared at Moody with his one dark eye. He was shouting something—they could no longer hear each other above the roaring air, but the smug, challenging look was plain to see. Moody replied by planting his elbow on that face.

The ground spiraled even closer: 1,800 feet…1,500…1,200…

It was unbelievably cold. The rushing wind froze their skins, stole the breath from their lungs. But neither man weakened as they struggled, punched, and tumbled through the unforgiving air. Gallowbraid wore a rictus grin of a desperate man telling himself he was sure to win. Moody answered that with a grin that told him he was dead wrong.

Not much further now—1000 feet…800…

The dark land beneath them seemed to swallow all reality, and for the first time, Gallowbraid showed signs of fear. His one eye flicked at the oncoming earth, then locked once again with Moody's gaze. Moody made sure that the news of his death was plain to see on his grizzled face.

But neither grip faltered.

Now 600 feet…400…200…

At that moment, less than 200 feet from certain death, Gallowbraid kicked Moody away and spread himself outwards. Free at last, the Auror tried to slow his spin and train his wand at his enemy, but the kick had sent him wheeling much too fast. He spread himself onto his back and looked up to find Gallowbraid several feet above, arms outstretched. An instant later, three objects that looked like shooting stars flew past Moody.

Moody had no choice. He had to act now or die.

Pointing his wand at the ground, hoping his trunk was still somewhere below him, he shouted, "_Four!_"

For a breathless second, nothing.

Then, at less than a hundred feet from the ground, he was hit full-force by a blast of freezing air as the North Wind came roaring up to meet him. He gasped and shut his eyes. The wind pushed harder against him, forcing him to slow his descent. He felt as if he was being squeezed between a heavy weight and a soft bed. He couldn't see, couldn't breathe, couldn't hear anything past that howling din.

He fell on for an interminable length of time, then he simply stopped.

Moody opened his eyes, realized he was lying facedown in a bed of snow. It took all his remaining strength to force himself into a sitting position and looked about. He had landed just a few feet away from his open trunk.

Alive. He was alive. But was Gallowbraid?

One look to the sky solved that mystery. There was a shadow against the moon, growing larger as the figure drew nearer. Gallowbraid came drifting down towards him, his feet standing on two of the Koschei gems. He grasped the third one in his hand as if it were the head of a walking stick.

His descent slowed even more as he approached, coming to a stop a foot above the ground. He alighted from his gems as simply as if he were getting off a bus. The stones resumed a circling formation around him.

"You nearly had me there," he said. His voice sounded low and bereft of satisfaction, as if he was an inch away from breaking down.

"Yeah," Moody replied. His legs would not obey him for some reason, so he began pounding them with his fists until they could feel again.

"I believe…that was the closest you came…to actually killing me."

"You want an apology?"

"I WANT YOU DEAD!" Gallowbraid howled. "I want to be rid of you at last, you wretched mass of filth! I want you out of my way, I want to lie in bed knowing I don't have to glance behind me every now and then knowing you're still there! I WANT YOU DEAD AND GONE AND IN HELL!"

Moody managed to stagger to his feet, threw a baleful glance at Gallowbraid.

"Are you trying to be funny?" he growled. "Look here! I've got your wand! I wasn't able to finish you up there, but I'm more than capable of that here on the ground. Those toys of yours won't save you now. Surrender, or you'll be the one who's going to get planted into the ground!"

"I'll surrender when I'm dead," replied Gallowbraid. "And if you think I am unarmed, then you are a fool." The Evil Eye widened like the heart of a whirlpool. "It is time to finish this!"

Without any warning, the three gems stopped their circling and hurtled forward. Moody's eyes widened in alarm, tried to duck, but found his legs reacted too slowly. He felt a whoosh of air near his ear, then pain exploded on his shoulder and his left hand. His legs gave way and he fell with a cry.

His magical eye swiveled, saw the gems coming to a stop some 12 feet away. Gritting his teeth, he looked down at his body. The cloth on his right shoulder was turning red from a deep cut. Further down, his left hand was caked in blood. Raising it to his face, he realized why. Both his ring and pinkie finger were missing.

Somewhere through the haze of pain, he heard Gallowbraid speaking, "You thought these gems are simply for defense? They're edged like razors, Alastor. I was thinking of slicing the flesh off your bones with them once I defeated you. But I may have to do so a little earlier now."

Moody got to his feet, swaying like a man on a storm-washed ship. He snapped his head up as the three gems flashed and made for him once more. He fired a curse—it simply glanced away from the gem it struck. He tried to drop to his haunches and was again too slow. One of the gems clipped his elbow. Another sliced along his ribs. He shrieked in agony and fell forward onto the snow.

"This is your end, Auror. I am going to watch you stain the ground red and listen to you scream while you die."

Moody pushed himself up and raised his wand, then stared at it. It had been sliced diagonally, almost in half. He could see the white filaments of the core encased by the rosewood.

The half-wand still in his hand, Moody began to crawl. He wasn't sure where to. Instinct drove him on. Another shock of pain went through him as the gems ripped three ungainly lines on his back.

"Death is too good for you, Auror. Unfortunately it is all I can give. Go on to hell and wait for me. We will continue our battles there when I arrive."

The gems rushed across his back again, then again. Moody could not hold back his screams as he crawled. At the last pass, he reached out and found the edge of his trunk. Taking one agonized gasp, he propped himself up to a sitting position.

His magical eye found the three gems spinning in place several feet to his right. Moody faced the trunk towards them, then raised a feeble fist as if in defiance.

"Farewell," said Gallowbraid.

The gems flashed once and darted forward.

Moody's fist dropped onto his trunk. "_Two!_"

The lid popped open, throwing Moody onto the ground behind the trunk. He heard three loud _thunks, _one after the other, as the gems embedded themselves on the inside of the lid. With his last remaining strength he slammed it shut, the eyes of Koschei trapped within.

It took one long moment of complete concentration not to pass out. Moody took a deep breath and instantly regretted it as his ribs shrieked in protest. He managed to sit, just as a real scream filled his ears—one of shock, disbelief, and unbridled rage.

"You should be dead! They should have killed you, you thrice-damned wretch! Why aren't you _dead_?!?"

Moody could not reply; he was in far too much pain to groan, let alone speak. Every labored breath went into the effort of staying awake. His flesh was cold except where his wounds burned. He spotted Gallowbraid's shadowy form rushing at him from his right. Instantly he raised the wand. His enemy hesitated. Then Gallowbraid smiled as he eyed the useless thing in Moody's hand.

"I see. I see now." He threw back his head and laughed, puffs of cloud rising from his open mouth. "I shouldn't let the gems finish you. _I_ should do it myself! What more fitting way to die than that, at the hands of your nemesis?"

In the moonlight, something glinted in Gallowbraid's hand. Moody barely registered the knife; he was bobbing in and out of a dark sea, weighed down by the wreckage of his body. Any second now, he would be gone and defenseless.

He might be defenseless even now, doing nothing as Gallowbraid advanced.

He held himself straighter, using the last of his strength to ignore the pain. He was an Auror still. He would be one even unto death.

"DIE!" Gallowbraid broke into a run, dagger raised overhead.

Moody staggered forward to meet him, raising his mangled left hand. In a heartbeat, the two attacks met.

Moody saw everything in clear snapshots of reality. The knife descended. He raised his left hand higher, let the blade sink deep into his open palm and come out the other side. Pain flooded his senses, but he ignored it. His right hand rose, gripping the broken wand, and stabbed forward and up, and blood flew through the air—

Time started again. Moody caught the look of wide-open shock on Gallowbraid's face before the force of Moody's strike wrenched his head to the left. Gallowbraid let go of his knife, which was buried in Moody's hand. Moody let go of the wand, which was buried in Gallowbraid's Eye.

For a moment, there was utter silence. Then an agonized cry filled Moody's ears. Gallowbraid fell back, blood from his socket trickling down his cheek. His hand grabbed onto the wand hilt and pulled, but it held fast. He pulled harder. Another gout of blood as the wand came out. Gallowbraid flung the broken thing away, clutched at his now-empty socket, and screamed again.

Moody staggered towards him, his mouth working. He was trying to say _surrender, _but the word wouldn't come. Then an alarm rang through his head as Gallowbraid reached for a ring on his right hand and twisted the red jewel on it.

He vanished. For a moment his scream lingered in place, then the wind snatched it away.

_No! _The word echoed in Moody's head. NO, NO, NOT AGAIN!

But his strength was melting away from his body, and pitched forward into the waiting dark ocean, drinking deep of the oblivion beneath it.

_To be continued_

_Author's Notes:_

_The upcoming chapters for this arc have already been written and edited. I will post them consecutively over the next few days._

_This chapter used to be very long, with scenes from Moody and Gallowbraid's duel interspersed with the battle of the Door of Fire. My beta advised me to separate them for pacing and clarity. Anyway, you know what's up next, so I'll leave off the preview!_

_Chapter XXXII: Paper Boat on a Burning Sea_


	33. Paper Boat on a Burning Sea

**The Phoenix and the Serpent**

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter XXXII: Paper Boat on a Burning Sea**

"They're nearly here."

Remus lowered the spyglass and handed it to Sirius. They along with six of their men were waiting in position at the cliff opposite the lighthouse, preparing to stage the ambush on the approaching Dementor Army. Darkness crawled across the sky, eating into the dull orange haze to the west. But not even the coming night was darker than the black line that marred the eastern horizon, like a strip of spilt oil creeping across the water.

Sirius said nothing. His skin was pale and moist from sea spray, and there were solid lines etched across his forehead. "Yeah," he said. "It's them, alright. Just like Marius said. Looks like a black tide rolling in, but you can see their white hands. Can you feel that chill?"

"I can feel it," Remus replied. It was an insidious sensation because it was so subtle—just a whisper of cold against your cheeks and on your bare arms.

"Has Lyle seen them, you think?" Sirius asked.

Remus looked left, out over the beach where the men were taking cover behind sand dunes. He let his eyes trail up to the other cliff where the lighthouse stood like an unlit candle, and finally to the group of six men standing at the cliff's edge. He knew the answer simply from the stillness of those figures, like birds transfixed by a snake's gaze.

"They know. They're ready."

"So we just wait for their signal?"

Remus nodded and raised his voice for the rest to hear. "When the last Dementor passes between the cliffs, Bernard ignites the Sunburst Lamp at the top of the lighthouse and we cast our Patronuses. Remember, our job is to cut off the enemy's retreat to the sea. Not one must escape. And we'll hold them here for…"

"…For as long as we can," concluded Sirius. "For as long as Hogwarts needs. Got that, everyone? Think of Hogwarts. We mustn't fail."

The men lay down on the cold ground. From a distance, they looked no more like stones themselves. Everything was silent, save for the east wind's keening and the wash of the tide on the rocks below.

* * *

"How are the men?" Lyle asked. 

Marius peered through his spyglass. "The enemy's about half an hour away from here. They're now marching 50 abreast, so we should adjust the spacing of the people on the beach to—"

"How are the men?"

Marius put down the spyglass to face him. "Scared near out of their damn wits," he said. "You can see it on their faces, can almost smell the fear coming off of them. They know the odds. I look at them down there," he turned his eyes to the beach, "and it's like we're trying to stop a flash fire with a wall of matches. If there was a way to bring up their morale…"

"Marius? You're shaking."

The old man blinked. "Am I? I imagine it's the chill. Winter by the sea gets you down to the bones…"

Lyle uncapped his flask and handed it to him.

"What's this?" asked Marius.

"Something from my little brother. It's hot chocolate, but it takes like vodka."

Marius guffawed as he accepted the flask. As he drank, Lyle said, "_Ignis aurum probat, miseria fortes viros_."

"Indeed," said the elder gentleman. "Fire does tests gold, as you say. But suppose we fail the test, and it turns out we are fool's gold after all?"

"Well," Lyle flashed a rare smile, "as my grandfather says, fake it till you make it."

Marius laughed again. Side by side, the two men waited as the wind became colder and the night drifted down like a falling veil. By now, thought Lyle, Kingsley would have the men on the beach hidden away.

Lyle took a deep breath, but in truth there was no real need to steady himself, no rising sense of panic. He felt an odd, purposeful calm. In a way he expected to come to something like this. Why not? He had always felt from the beginning, back in his Hogwarts days, that he was meant to do something good and meaningful for the world. It was just sad that it turned out to be like this.

Soft footfalls on the grass behind him. "Commander?"

"Miss Syrrh?" A puzzled frown crossed Lyle's face as he turned at the sound of Aliora's voice. What was she doing down here? Last he heard she was up at the light house with Arabella, not speaking to anyone in order to preserve her voice.

Aliora tilted her head towards him. "I'm sorry to bother you, but could I please have a moment?"

Lyle felt an immediate sense of dread. Aliora would never leave her post unless it was terribly important. "Of course," he said to her. "Marius?"

"Go ahead," said his advisor. "I'll keep track of the men."

Aliora turned and walked back in the direction of the lighthouse. As he followed her, Lyle mentally listed the things that could possibly have gone wrong and just as quickly crossed them out. Was she losing her voice? No, she sounded fine just now. Was she thinking of backing out? She did not seem terribly frightened, nor was it likely for her to seek him out if she wanted to leave. Did she feel she needed extra protection in order to perform well? No, she would not ask that knowing he could not spare the men.

Lyle was so caught up with his own thoughts that he nearly stumbled into her when she turned to face him. She had been no more than a sylph in his mind's eye while he was following her, as transparent as an idea or a dream. But now he caught the scent of irises in her hair, could feel the very real warmth of her nearness. They had never spoken privately before. Again, he wondered what she wanted to talk about.

"There's not much time, is there?" she asked.

"Almost none," he admitted. "Please, Miss Syrrh, speak freely. Is something wrong? Are you alright?"

"Please," she said, lowering her gaze, "call me Aliora."

"Aliora," he repeated, and realized he'd never used her name before. He supposed it was her stature as an artist that made him more deferential. "Now, what's the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter," she replied, "save that there is precious little time. I want to speak to you before it all begins. Would you…would you hear me out?"

"Of course, but we must hurry." She's scared, he thought as he listened to her breathing. But not terrified. He'd known very few people not terrified of Dementors.

"We won't take long," she said, raising her eyes. "Lyle, you've asked me to sing for the men as they fight. You want me to raise their spirits, to help them remember the things that made them happy in life..."

"…to help them cast their Patronuses, yes, I remember." Lyle felt his worry and impatience gnaw at him. How close were the Dementors now? Two miles? One?

"I have not had a chance to thank you for giving me this task. I'm happy to serve the Order in this way, in the best way that I can."

"Your feelings do you credit, Aliora."

She bit her lip. "Yet I also want to ask you…do you realize that while the songs may protect their listeners from despair, what would protect the singer?"

Lyle put a hand on her shoulder. "Aliora, I promise you, you'll be the safest person on the beach. The lighthouse is well defended. You'll have Bernard, Arabella, and Coven with you, not to mention the reserve squad. You have no reason to worry—"

She shook her head; he felt the flow of her silken hair on the back of his hand. "I was not speaking of my safety, Lyle," she said. "Haven't you ever wondered what would keep _me_ from despair?"

"I have my own happy memory," she said softly, before he could think of a reply. "It happened very recently, and I think about it every night before I go to sleep. Shall I tell you what it is?"

He lowered his hand, opened his mouth to say something, but she hurried on.

"It happened four nights ago, in the Summit. Do you remember that time? You came out of your room and you sat in the hall where I was performing. I had sung there many nights, but that was the first time you came to hear me. You just sat there and listened. I watched your face. I've never told you, but I've… I've been watching you a long time, and almost always I only saw worry on your face. Worry and pain and fear for the people you care for. But that night was different. You were at peace. You were smiling. And right then, I knew—I did that. My music helped you. You were looking for something and you found it in my songs.

"I felt so happy. I couldn't tell you how happy you made me. Only now, only now could I find the courage…"

She fell silent, and Lyle realized that while she had been speaking, he had forgotten to chime his rings. When he did, he found her face close, eyes wide open, lips slightly parted. Her face as warm as a candle flame.

"I wish I had told you earlier," she said.

Lyle opened his mouth, but nothing escaped, not even a whisper. For the first time in a long while he was utterly, completely, dumbstruck.

After a quiet moment, she said, "We've very little time."

"I…I…yes, very little." He licked his dry lips, realizing that he was doing a blind man's equivalent of gaping. "Aliora, I don't know what to say. This is a… a first for me."

"And me, Lyle," she said.

"Yes, well, I am…I am… pleased… by your honesty. Forthrightness. Perhaps at a later date…we could…discuss further…"

"I also want to tell you," she said, "I believe we'll make it through this. I believe your plan will not just save the lives of those in Hogwarts, but our lives as well. That's why I'm going to give it my best. We're all going to be alright. I believe that. Because I have my happy memory. And…once we're done here, once this terrible war is over… perhaps… yes, perhaps later…"

She hesitated, cast her eyes down. Then, with a deep breath and a leveling of her shoulders, she raised her head and quickly kissed him at the corner of his mouth, as if it was all she could do.

"Be safe, Lyle," she whispered. "I'll be watching you." Then she hurried back to the lighthouse.

Lyle stood there until her image faded from his mind's eye, then he turned and carefully made his way back to his men at the cliff. That spot on his mouth never stopped burning. He didn't touch it for fear of the sensation going away.

Marius was waiting for him when he returned. If the old man had observed anything of what happened, he didn't show it.

But he did ask: "Did she get what she wanted from you?"

Lyle answered, very slowly: "I believe so."

Marius smiled and put his hand on the Lyle's shoulder. "It's time, Commander."

Lyle nodded. "I know. Have everyone take cover. "

He turned to the lighthouse. He wondered if she was watching him even now, as she had all this time without him noticing. And why hadn't he? Had he been living in his head so long that he missed this? How could he have missed this? How come he was given this only now, when there wasn't time for anything at all?

Filled with a lingering regret, Lyle turned to face the unquiet sea.

* * *

An overcast night sky and torrential waves met the Dementor Army when it arrived at the cliffs. The chill wind had risen to a howl, and the water thrashed and roiled and lobbed ice floes at the stone walls of the cliffs, as if suffering from the army's damnable weight. But the Dementors passed into the Door of Fire with monk-like silence, their hooded heads facing the shore as if were their own promised land. 

It took little more than 20 minutes for the Dementors to drift all the way into the inlet. As the last one floated past the cliffs, and just before the first could reach the sand, the Order sprung its trap.

There was a tremendous _whoosh,_ like a blast of hot air filling a balloon, and the lighthouse flared to life. The Dementors raised their hidden faces and halted in confusion. The first of their ranks put up their thin pale arms to ward off the brilliant glow that turned the night into day.

Simultaneously, the first strums of a heartlyre reverberated throughout the area. The song was called "Rise," an anthem of courage and love for one's homeland. Even before Aliora could sing the first line, the beach came alive with war cries as a dozen men and women leaped from behind the sand dunes, casting a dozen different Patronuses.

A terrible moaning went up as the Dementors fell back. The phantom animals quickly spread out to cover both ends of the shore. The men at the cliffs sprang out of their hiding places and sent their Patronuses down into the water. Hovering above the sea, they closed off the entrance to the inlet.

Chaos reigned as it dawned on the Dementors that they were trapped. Ranks broke up, and the mob of them swelled to fill the inlet as they retreated from the Patronus wall.

High on the southern cliff, Sirius gave a whoop that was half triumph and half relief. "We got 'em, Moony!" he howled. "Rounded them up like a bunch of sheep! You hear me?" he shouted down at the Dementors. "A bunch of sheep! How does it feel to be the ones imprisoned, for once?"

"Settle down!" Remus grabbed him by the sleeve and dragged him away from the edge. To the others he said, "Maintain your Patronuses! Don't break our defensive line!"

"We have them in our grasp, men!" Sirius shouted. He could no longer feel the dampening effects of the fiends below. His mind brimming with victorious Quidditch matches from Hogwarts years, he hurled another Patronus down at the seething mass. "Don't let up! Give 'em all you got!"

Beneath them, the Dementors surged from one end of the cliffs to another like animals testing a cage. They turned and twisted, rushing here and there, only to flee again from the charging Patronuses.

After half an hour of mayhem, it suddenly all stopped.

Sirius frowned at the sudden shift of events beneath him. The Dementors ceased their moaning. Each creature came to a halt and stood there where they were, facing in all directions. Soon the inlet became a maze of statues, all dark hoods and pale hands.

"What's going on?" Sirius whispered. "They seemed scared at first, but now…"

"It looks as if they're… waiting," Remus remarked as he studied the scene.

"What, they think we're going to get tired so easily? We'll keep them here until doomsday if we have to!"

Remus ignored him, kept his eyes trained on the still forms beneath them. Where had this newfound calm come from? There had to be a reason for it.

As if in answer to his question, he spied something at the center of the crowd. Grabbing Sirius's sleeve, pointed at the shadowy dome that was growing there like a tumor. It seemed to be made of smoke, or black mist. When it was about the size of a car it began a slow, counterclockwise spin, like a tiny hurricane.

"Can Dementors…do that?" Sirius asked.

"No, supposedly," Remus said. "Look!"

The dome pulsed like a massive heart and grew larger still. A few minutes later it was the size of small cottage. Some of the creatures turned to watch it, as if it was something they had expected. Remus could not tell for sure, but it seemed that with the growth of the dome the radiance of the lighthouse had dimmed somewhat.

"Dark magic," he whispered. "Whatever's causing this, it's not a Dementor." He paused. "Or at least, not an ordinary one."

The two men peered into the heart of the shadows. Neither of them could say for sure, but it seemed as if there was someone standing at the center of that maelstrom, a figure darker than the shadows surrounding it.

"It's him," Sirius whispered. "The Dementor King."

* * *

For two hours, the Order watched and waited for something--anything--to happen. 

"Has it grown?" asked Lyle.

Marius turned to his commander, glad to have an excuse not to look at the Dementor Army and that terrible dark dome. "So much that I don't need a spyglass to see it. That cloud's as big as a city block now, but what concerns me most is the Sunburst Lamp. The light's not as bright as when we began. That thing, whatever it is, is behind it, draining the Lamp like some kind of energy parasite."

Lyle nodded. "Is the Lamp set to full power?"

"As high as it could go." Marius mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. "What do you suppose will happen next?"

"It's plain enough," Lyle replied. "They may fail to break through our barrier, or they may succeed, in which case we do as we must."

"Forgive me, it was a stupid question. Just the apprehension, I suppose."

The coast was quiet now; the wind had fallen still, and even the lash of the waves seemed distant and obscure. Under his instructions, Aliora had ceased singing for now to preserve her voice. Each guard on the beach and the cliffs stood at attention, dutifully recasting their Patronuses before they wore off. They did not cease their watch, though, not even when they were relieved and marched off to rest at the base of the lighthouse. No one could stop looking at the eerie sight of the frozen Dementor Army, nor at the looming mass of dark energy in their midst.

"An hour," muttered Marius. "We've bought ourselves that, perhaps less, then…something may happen."

Thirty minutes passed before something did. One of the men near Lyle gasped and pointed at the beach.

"They're moving!"

Marius hurried over to the cliff edge and raised his spyglass.

"A number of the fiends are forming ranks along the shore," he reported. "Wait…the Dementors are all turning to face the beach."

"Everyone on full alert," ordered Lyle. "Have the reserves at the ready."

Marius raised his wand to give the signal, then just as quickly dropped his hand and peered back into the spyglass.

"Commander, intruders on the beach! They've just Apparated behind our team!"

Lyle thought his heart stopped beating for a moment, then it broke into a gallop. "Who are they? Can you identify—"

Marius faced him, his face a mask of shock. "Lyle—they're wearing black and gold robes—Ministry Aurors."

He no more said those two colors when Lyle broke into a run. He pelted down the slope towards the beach as fast as his two feet could carry him. He had forgotten about the danger. The appearance of the Aurors, here at this crucial moment, could spell disaster.

But maybe…just maybe…

He reached the shore in five minutes, completely out of breath. Chiming his rings harder, his awareness expanded to perceive what was happening. No one was fighting. The Order stood sideways, keeping one eye on the Dementors and another on their unexpected visitors. The three dozen Aurors stood together in a tight group, apparently overwhelmed by the sight filling the inlet. One of them, a huge bear of a man, stood apart from the others, apparently waiting to address him. Lyle loped towards him.

When he neared them, the Auror raised an open palm in greeting. "Well met, Commander Lionel Bishop."

Lyle approached cautiously, not drawing his wand. "The Aurors…" he gasped, and found he could say no more.

"I'm Captain Alfred Cunningham, Auror 1st class," the bearded man said. "This is my team. We know of the situation here and have come to aid you in however way we can."

Lyle felt his head buzzing with too many questions, but only managed only one word: "How?"

"Albus Dumbledore sent word to the public about the Dementor uprising," the captain replied. "The Ministry denied this was happening and attempted a cover-up. But our sources confirmed that Azkaban stands empty, so we mustered as many of those who would follow…Commander, we were among those who attacked your headquarters. We heard what you said about the Creed. We, too, believe that the Ministry is in the wrong, and so are we. The Aurors have much to answer for—"

Lyle interrupted the man by grabbing and shaking his hand. "Your aid is most welcome!" he cried. "Gods, we'll win this one yet! The Aurors, united at last! Even the Dark Lord won't stand against us!"

"Er, yes, Commander, thank you," replied the flustered man. When Lyle released his hand, he added, "We are under your authority, Commander Bishop. Please give us orders--"

"THEY'RE BREAKING THROUGH!"

Lyle turned and drew his wand at the same time. His mind was momentarily overwhelmed by the image his rings were feeding him—a host of towering, ghostly shapes, skeletal hands grasping, that horrible whispering sound their robes made on the water as they rushed undaunted at the Patronuses—

"Hold fast!" Lyle shouted, "Stand your ground and don't let them get through! HOLD FAST!"

In his mind's eye he saw his Patronus—a brilliant wide-winged condor—surging from the tip of his wand and charging against the onrushing tide of death.

* * *

"Arabella? What's happening?" 

For the first time since she began, Aliora Syrrh stopped playing her heartlyre and looked to the elder woman. Arabella stood by the lighthouse railing and gazed down at the beach. The white blaze of the Sunburst lamps threw her profile into sharp relief against the night sky. From below came the sound of screams and battlecries, and a cacophony of harsh whispering that sounded anything but human.

"Keep playing, dear," was all she replied.

Aliora got up from her stool to join her, but Arabella turned around, her once gentle face stern and rigid. "No," she said.

"But the Commander, the others…please Arabella, you must tell me—"

"Remember your duty," Arabella replied. "You must use your music to fight the Dementor's influence. It's the only way you can help, and you cannot do it if you do not focus."

"But…"

Arabella took her by the shoulders and gently steered her back to her seat. "Keep playing, dear," the elder woman said. "You will see nothing down there that will help you. If you want to save us all, you must play."

Swallowing her own fear, Aliora sat down and tightened the strings of her heartlyre. Arabella was right, she needed to concentrate on her performance. But if only the elder woman understood that what Aliora was seeing in her head was a thousand times worse than what could be happening below.

With a deep breath, Aliora shut her eyes, strummed the first notes of her next song, and let her music take her to a place beyond all danger and war.

* * *

Sirius could not comprehend the suddenness of it all: for several hours he and Remus had watched the Dementor Army remain frozen in the tiny inlet below. Then without warning, the fiends surged forward, throwing themselves forward like a crazed mob ramming through a fence. Their defensive line almost fell as the army trampled a number of the silvery animals. Had the newly-arrived Aurors not acted quickly by summoning their own Patronuses, the Dementors would have overwhelmed the barrier and mowed the Order down. 

With tooth and claw and horn and bulk, the Patronuses pushed back against the Dementors' attack. The line held; it wavered, it bent against an unbelievable strain, but it held.

Then the fiends began climbing the cliffs.

To his credit, it took Sirius only a few seconds to swallow his horror. He stopped cutting off the Dementors from the open sea, instead sending their Patronuses charging down the cliff walls to knock their enemies back into the water.

But the Dementors kept coming, crawling as if gravity didn't deter them at all. From a distance, it looked like a mass of black shadows flowing up the face of the cliffs. For every one thrown down more would come to take its place, their claws finding impossible handholds on the uneven rock surface. The fallen ones would rise back up, unhurt, to rejoin the climb.

Finally Remus said, "We have to spread the men along the cliffs or they'll get past us!"

"There's too many of them!" Sirius hurled another Patronus down, the flaming white fox cutting a path through the Dementors. "We can't cover the whole area!"

"We've got to try! If they get up on the cliffs they'll outflank our people on the beach!" He faced one of their sergeants. "Roberts, stay with the captain and guard this area!" He signaled to two others, who loped after him to cover other parts of the cliff.

Sirius whole body ached with effort. His breath escaped in puffs of cloud, and all around he heard the harsh whispering of the Dementors, speaking an alien tongue that made his head hurt and his chest feel heavy and dead.

But Aliora's voice still resounded, thank the heavens for that. Her voice never faltered as she filled their ears with words of love and encouragement. Tethering his spirit to that wonderful voice, Sirius fought on, hurling spell after spell down at the oncoming enemy. He tried shooting the cliff itself, and whooped in triumph when the cascade of rocks knocked more Dementors off than a single Patronus.

"Roberts!" he shouted, facing the man to his left, "Shoot the cliff! The cliff!"

His companion looked to him to reply, but was suddenly cut short. A pale, rotting hand streaked up and grabbed the front of his shirt, sending him tumbling off the side. Sirius could only watch in horror as Roberts fell, his screams trailing his descent.

"BASTARD!" In his rage, Sirius forgot about the Patronus, hurling a Blasting Hex at the fiend and sending it spinning off into space.

More of them came, their dead hands grabbing onto the edge to hoist their bodies up. Sirius threw several more hexes, shouting over his shoulder, "To me! They're breaking through here!"

An instant later, six spectral shapes rushed past him and smashed into the Dementors. Sirius turned to find Remus and the others running to the attack. He grabbed Remus before his friend could rush past. "Who's down? Who'd we lose?"

Remus's eyes were too wide and too white. "They got Jeffries and Sullivan. There's only five of us left!"

"Damn it! We've got to pull back and regroup!"

"We can't let them have this cliff, Sirius! If they outflank us on the shore then we're all lost! Listen to me, all we need to do is control this area. We must hold them off!"

"We can't do it forever!"

"We can do it for long as we have to—just like you said!" He shoved Sirius away from him and aimed his wand. Another Dementor crashed back down to the sea.

The cries of their men caught Sirius's ears. Dementors were boiling up from their eastern side. He ran forward, raised his wand, and threw the strongest Blasting Hex he could at the cliff edge. The spell exploded like a grenade; the din jangled in his ears, disorienting him. Several things were happening at once: a piece of the cliff sliding away, carrying half a dozen Dementors with it; his men were throwing feeble curses and shouting incoherently; someone behind him calling out his name; more hands appearing from the darkness before him, more of the enemy pulling themselves up from the precipice.

Undaunted, Sirius raised his wand again. "Remus, keep our flank covered! We can handle the front ourselves!"

He threw another Patronus and the Dementors fell. No more came to take their place, a sudden lull in the fighting. Perhaps they were tiring. Remus was right, they just had to control the edge. They could still do this. They just had to keep fighting.

"Remus, how's our back? You need any help?"

There was no response.

"Remus, where are you? Remus—"

Sirius turned, then became very, very still.

Remus stood not seven feet away, his wand raised like a conductor about to commence a symphony, but was bent backwards as if he had seen something interesting above them. The Dementor behind him held him there, one hand snaked around his back, the other gripping his jaw so tightly it must hurt, but Remus must not care because the thing had its lips locked around his and it was making a noise like an old man sucking the marrow out of a bone and Remus's skin was so white it seemed bloodless and the wand was falling from his limp fingers—

Sirius's did not know what hex he fired. All he knew was that the bright spell sent the Dementor tumbling into the abyss. Remus crumpled, but Sirius managed to grab his friend before he could dash his head on the ground.

But what had he saved? Remus's eyes, once filled with humor and intelligence, now held only a vacant, idiot stare. His mouth hung open and lifeless, a bruise beginning to appear around the lips.

"Fall back!" Sirius cried. "Fall back to the main force! RETREAT!"

It was the last coherent thing he said before his voice disintegrated into sobs, and slinging Remus's limp body over his shoulder the last coherent thing he did. In the distance he could see streaks of spellfire crisscrossing the beach. Far above, Aliora's voice sounded weak and strained, and the blaze of the lighthouse now looked wan and feeble against the surrounding dark.

_Lost_, thought Sirius. _We're all lost_. He tried to call up his good memories with the Marauders, anything to stave back the surrounding blackness, but he could not find anywhere in his head. The Dementors were taking that away too, leaving him only grief and destruction and the worst ways in the world to die.

* * *

Voices were calling his name, telling him to wake up. 

Moody struggled against it. He wanted to stay here in the dark, where there was no cold, no pain, no war. But the voices were insistent, and he found himself buoyed from the murky depths of sleep back to the surface. He let it happen. One of the voices belonged to Danny, and he needed to know that his godson was alright.

Moody opened his eyes to light from a campfire. Two faces hovered over him, bruised and pale with fear.

His first words came out in a croak: "This looks familiar."

"Oh gods," said Danny, both laughing and trying not to cry. "I thought you'd never wake up."

Harry was smiling down at him, eyes moist. "Glad to have you back, Mad-Eye. You have no idea how close you came…"

"I know, believe me, I do." Moody shook his head to clear it and tried to sit up. His body screamed at him to stop and he complied at once.

"Easy there!" Danny put a palm against his godfather's head. "You're not getting up so soon after a fight like that."

"We bandaged your wounds with the med supplies in your trunk," Harry said, "but you lost a lot of blood."

"You did well," Moody replied. "Both of you. Again, you saved my life."

The boys clustered closer, smiling in relief. "How'd you find us?" Harry asked.

"I was flying out here on my broom, heading for the Summit," Moody explained. "Heard from our Commander that the Aurors had chased the Order out from its headquarters. I wanted to do some surveillance, maybe even try to convince some of those lunkheads to come over to our side. Then I saw fighting down in the forest below and went to investigate. That's when I found you and my old acquaintance." He grimaced. "Now I've got an idea how the Aurors have stayed deluded for so long. Too bad Gallowbraid got away."

"Which reminds me," said Danny, breaking into a grin. "Got a gift for you."

He held up piece of cloth in the light, unwrapped something, and tilted his hand for Moody to look. On Danny's palm were half of Gallowbraid's wand, and the yellow sphere of the Evil Eye.

"Found it on the snow, stuck on the end of this wand," Danny explained. "It looks a bit damaged, but I thought you might want it."

A tired smile lit on Moody's lips as he gazed at that eye. Gallowbraid may have escaped him, but without this he would be a demolished man. He'll not be back on his feet for quite a while. The thought that he was suffering right at this moment was a grim consolation.

Moody's roaming eye found the moon, marked that it was long past its zenith, and raised his head in alarm. "How long was I out?"

"You've been unconscious for almost six hours," Harry replied.

"Six hours!" Moody nearly jerked out of his blankets. "Gods, the Door of Fire! The battle!"

The two boys stared at him, then glanced at each other. "Battle?" asked Harry. "What battle? What's the Door of Fire?"

"There's no time to explain!" Ignoring the agony, Moody struggled to get up again.

"Hold on!" Danny said. "What's the rush? We've been here for a while without any danger, so you can take a few minutes to tell us—"

"What do you mean, 'battle'?" Harry demanded.

Moody took a deep breath and related what their spy had found many hours before, summarizing the Dark Lord's plan to assault Hogwarts at dawn and the Order's plan to stop the Dementor Army at the Door of Fire.

"In short," he said, "Hogwarts isn't a safe place anymore. I've got to take you two to one of the Order's safe houses in the west. The rest will meet up with us—"

"Hold on!" Harry shouted. "You're telling me that right now, Sirius and Remus are outnumbered by an army of Dementors on a beach somewhere?"

Moody instantly read the look in his eyes. "No, lad. You're not going there."

"But—"

"No. There's a thousand of those things, Harry, a thousand. The Order's out to buy time for Hogwarts to evacuate."

Harry turned to Danny, but the older boy shocked him by saying, "He's right, kid."

"Danny—my godfather's out there fighting—"

"I know, and I'm sorry. But look. There's only three of us, Moody's in no shape to be even up on a broom, and I…I'll be honest, even if my arm didn't happen to resemble a piece of driftwood, I can't cast a Patronus to save my life."

"What's more," Moody added, "the Door of Fire is four hours away from here, even if we go by broom." He raised his good hand and touched Harry's shoulder. "I'm sorry, lad. We can't help them now."

But the blazing look did not fade from Harry's eyes. He got to his feet, letting Moody's hand fall away from his arm.

"Maybe we can't," he said, "but there's someone who can."

He faced away from them, walked some paces away, then lowered his head as if in silent prayer.

Moody stared at him for several moments. "What's he doing?"

Danny shrugged. "Don't ask me. The kid's been a bit funny lately since he came out of that gem."

The Auror goggled at him. "He what? He was in the Crystal Cage all this time?"

"Yeah, and there's more to it. He told me this wild story about this woman who's a thousand-year old v—"

Danny broke off, eyes going wide as his gaze whipped to Harry's back. "Oh, he's got to be joking…"

"What?" Moody followed his eyes. "What is it? You have any idea what he's—"

But his words were lost as the world vanished into a blinding flash of crimson.

_To be continued_

_1. This is the second half of the previous chapter. The next chapter, already done and just needs a bit of tweaking, will be out in a couple of days. _

_2. By year end, I'll be quitting my job to engage in professional writing. I wish I could tell you what that looks like, but I don't have much of an idea either except spending four hours a day before my computer and sending my work out to whomever wants to buy it. It's a scary notion, I know, but it's also a relief from a workaday existence in the office, and it gives me the feeling that I'm finally turning my life around._

_Any publishers out there? _

_Up Next: Choices, changes. Oh my shadow. Retaking the Door. Spear of Mercy. On Silent Wings._

_Chapter XXXIII: The Door of Fire_


	34. The Door of Fire

**The Phoenix and the Serpent**

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

"_To open a door of fire"—a wizarding expression meaning, "to make a decisive and irrevocable choice." _

**Chapter XXXIII: The Door of Fire**

_Dahlia, are you there?_

Harry clutched the Crystal Cage with both hands and squeezed his eyes shut, as if he were really praying. And why not? Right now, he badly needed a miracle.

_Dahlia, it's Harry—can you hear me?_

He felt her presence flow into his mind, as soothing as a balm on his forehead, and his fears eased.

_**I can always hear you, Harry.**_

Just hearing her voice filled him with hope. _Did you also hear what we were talking about just now?_

There was a mental pause.

_**Yes.**_

_We could really use your help against the Dementors. Would you come with us to the Door of Fire?_

Another mental pause. Longer than needed for a deep breath.

_**I am sorry.**_

_Dahlia?_

_**I am sorry, Harry, but I cannot come with you. I cannot leave the Crystal.**_

_But you—you passed the tests! You can leave anytime you want, just like I did!_

_**Harry…it is not that simple. Not for me.**_

_But we need you! _

_**The world ill needs a Cimmerian Sorceress.**_

Harry couldn't understand it. She'd never been afraid of anything, not before this.

_That's not true. You're the one who can help the most. You know exactly what the Dementors are. You created them so you must know how to uncreate them. Don't you?_

_**Harry.**_

_DON'T YOU?_

…_**Yes.**_

_Then come with me. Please. Because I have to go there. I'm going there even if I have to go alone._

_**No, you must not. Harry, please reconsider. **_

_There's nothing to reconsider, and there's no time!_

_**Child, do not ask this of me. You do not know what you are asking.**_

_I am asking you for help, like you've helped me before. Is there a price? I'll pay it. My friends—my godfather's out there. Sirius is my family, Dahlia. My friends in Hogwarts are my family. If the Dementors get to them…if they reach Hogwarts…they'll all die. And I might as well be too because there won't be anything left for me. If there's any chance I can save them, I'll do it, do you understand? You understand, don't you?_

For a long moment, she did not speak. Then her reply came in a slow, measured voice.

_**I understand, Harry. And your courage shames me.**_

_**You do this to protect all you hold dear, everything that nourishes and shapes who you are and who you will become.**_

_**So too must I protect all I hold dear.**_

The Crystal flashed a brilliant ruby light, as if Harry held a piece of Mars itself in his hands. He shut his burning eyes and averted his face. When he was able to see again, Dahlia was standing before him.

"What you ask, I will give, body and soul."

* * *

Neither Moody or Danny uttered a word; they merely _gaped_.

The woman was robed in red, with great black wings flowing from her back like a cloak of night. Her beauty was beyond words, and cold in a way that a knife blade could be; when she turned her emerald gaze on them, they felt as if they'd been stabbed.

Sensing the awkward moment, Harry turned to them. "Mad-Eye, Danny, this is Dahlia. She's my teacher, and my friend."

But Dahlia turned her eyes to the stars above. "Harry," she said, her soft voice carrying an unearthly sense of power. "I had thought you would have rid the world of _that_by now."

"What do you—oh." Harry looked up, too. "The Black Barrier? But I don't know how."

"Then look at it." She reached out and took his hand. "Is it not a feeble slip of _aether_? An expression of a will so poor it barely exists?"

Harry looked and saw she spoke true. The magic up there was as thin as cobwebs—he could probably break them with a pass of his hand. Why hadn't he noticed?

"Now," she said, "follow my lead."

Together, they drew a deep breath.

* * *

In the lower vaults of the Ministry, just a few doors down from the Department of Mysteries, the office door of the Department of Artifacts burst open as the chief was dozing on his couch.

"Sir!" screamed his First Assistant.

"WHAT!" the man roared back. "I swear to God, Mulch, if the Minister is asking for another ocular inspection, I'm going to jam that mop so far up his nose—"

"No, Chief! It's the Black Barrier Generator! It's gone crazy!"

"What are you talking about? We just checked that last week and it was—"

But Mulch grabbed his boss and dragged the protesting man out the door. As soon as they entered the hallway, they were met by a high-pitched noise, like several dozen screeching cats locked in a small room. When he heard it, the Chief ran down the corridor.

The two men burst through a door at the end of the hall and into a vast metallic room. At the center was the Black Barrier Generator, a tall steel spindle made of cast-iron and glass. The top portion resembled a TV aerial, but it whirled like a fan blade and threw off a never-ending array of golden sparks. This was usually normal, but tonight it was moving at thrice its speed and shrouded by a cataract of pulsing yellow light.

"What the hell did you do to it?" bellowed the Chief.

"It was like that when I got here!" the First Assistant shrieked back. "And look—look at the gauge!"

Both men gazed at the dial on the Generator's body. The magical output was normally set at the middle, now had its indicator up above the threshold level. And the infernal thing was going even faster.

"Gods!" cried the Chief. "That kind of overheating can only be caused by several thousand Apparations at once! Britain's being invaded!"

"No, sir, look at the map! No one's doing any Apparating!"

There was a parchment map on the wall used to pinpoint points of illegal Apparation, and true enough, said map stood empty. But the Generator spun faster still, vibrating and smoking like an epileptic dragon.

"Then what the hell's happening? There has to be something out there sucking all that magical energy from the Barrier!"

"I don't know, sir! But if we don't stop it now, it's going to—"

The machine reached a whine that seemed super-sonic, blew out a gout of steam that clouded the entire room, then simply died. The two men watched as the aerial halted and the Generator went utterly dark.

In the silence, the First Assistant whispered, "What are we going to tell the Minister?'

The Chief shot him a withering look. "What do you mean, 'we?'"

* * *

Harry could do nothing but stare as the last magical paling fell away from the night sky, allowing the moon and stars to shine unmasked. He had no idea before now they could glow so brightly in the dark.

Nearby, Moody and Danny were staring up as well. The old man just sat there, thunderstruck, while his godson blurted, "Moody, did she just…?"

"She did," Moody answered, "and if she's really on our side, then it's the end of the whole bloody war."

Harry smiled at him before turning back to his mentor. His smile instantly vanished.

"Dahlia, you're trembling! Are you alright?"

The Sorceress disengaged her hand from his and stepped away. "It is nothing," she said. "It has been a long time…since I had a body…"

Harry reached out to touch her, but she drifted from him like rain and would not meet his eyes.

"We must leave. There is much to be done before the night ends." She turned her gaze again to Moody and Danny. "But your companions are not fit to travel."

Without seeming to move at all she came to stand before them. Neither man knew where to look; even the normally stalwart Moody seemed to wilt into the ground. But Dahlia did not mind their reticence.

"Your wounds are grievous," she said, "your blood and muscle spent. Will you still take up the wand and ride to battle?"

Silence for a moment, then Moody replied. "Where Harry goes, we go."

A smile flitted on her face. "Brave, Old Warrior. You are a bulwark to your friends and a terror to your foes." She raised her hand over them, palms down, and whispered a word of command. Strings of golden right radiated from her fingers, tracing over their bodies. The two gasped in wonder. When she lowered her hand, Danny raised his left arm.

"Merlin!" he muttered, "Good as new!"

Moody shook off the bloodied bandage from his left hand and examined his fingers. The two stumps had scabbed over and the knife wood on his palm had knit into a pale white scar. He leaned forward and found himself steady on his feet. Barely believing his eyes, he said, "Thank you."

She nodded to him then turned away, her back to the moon. At first Harry thought she would speak to him, but she cast her eyes to the ground instead.

"O my shadow," she whispered. "Long have you lain dreamless in sleep. Yet you remember, better than I, the worst years, the war years, the days that ran red with blood and the nights blackened by despair. You know my crimes and my secrets, you were cut from the darkest part of my heart. Now, I bid you, break your silence. Come and join hands with me, as you have done long ago. Come to my aid, one more time, one last time."

There was an answering breeze, and her shadow deepened until it was black as a hole in the ground. A spear began to rise vertically from its depths. Harry recognized it as the very same one Dahlia used in Stonehenge. A glowing red mist wreathed the dark, wooden haft, and the barbed spearhead gleamed like a demon's eye.

The lance towered three feet over Dahlia's head. She took it in her hands and examined it, a look of unspeakable sadness on her face, as if the weapon were something she never expected to see again. But after she had spun it overhead in fluid circle, jabbed at the air once, twice, and finally set the spear butt on the ground, it seemed as if it had always been a part of her.

Dahlia turned her face skywards. The moonlight lit her pale skin, ignited in her green eyes. She unfurled her black wings and the pinions gleamed like ebony knives. In this open space she seemed to shroud the entire sky. A sudden darkness descended, and Harry felt a familiar tug on his middle as the world fell away from under his feet.

"Come, my friends," he heard her say. "The Morrígan goes to war."

* * *

The Order of the Phoenix lay in shambles.

After six hours of non-stop fighting, their force had been reduced to a fourth of their number. The men stationed on the cliffs had taken heavy losses and retreated to the beach. The men on the beach had been all but wiped out. A few pockets of resistance remained, their Patronuses flowing around them to keep the Dementors at bay.

Sirius knelt at the center of one of these circles, trying to catch his breath. His mind numb as his wand arm, he lifted his weary head and gazed about him. Their circle included Lyle, Marius, Cunningham and two of his Aurors. Shoulder to shoulder, the Dementors surrounded them all in a seamless black wall.

The Dementors seemed loathed to leave the beach until every last human had been destroyed. They crowded round the circles and at the sealed entrance of the lighthouse, whispering to themselves, waiting for the chance to break the defense.

Only moments ago, they had watched in helpless horror as the Dementors overwhelmed Kingsley's group, wrestling the men to the ground and administering the Kiss. Sirius could no longer see the bodies of the fallen, strewn on the sand like so many abandoned rag dolls. That was a bitter mercy.

Only their Patronuses kept the fiends at bay, and even these would not hold for long, not with the Dementors stealing every last bit of hope left in them. The safest place of all, the lighthouse where a fortunate few were holed up, was perhaps a hundred yards up the cliff path. It might as well have been on the other side of the world.

The battle was lost, and yet the Order fought on anyway. At the top of the lighthouse, Aliora kept singing, and when her voice gave out, she hummed her songs instead. If the quality of the heartlyre changed, Sirius imagined her fingers had bloodied the strings.

Lyle stalked around the perimeter of their group, casting and recasting his Patronus Charm. The Commander hadn't rested at all. Sirius could see how badly the Auror's hands were shaking, how much a struggle it was to simply keep standing up.

"We have to get to the lighthouse," Lyle kept saying. "It's our only chance."

But they could not take one step in any direction. Lyle kept pacing in circles, looking for a way to escape, and the Dementors kept vigil around them, freezing the air and mercilessly filling their ears with the noise of their breathing. Sirius hurled another Patronus at their tormentors, but the only thing that emerged from his wand was a fuzzy white cloud. The Dementors did not even flinch.

Sirius arm dropped back to his side. "Spilt milk," he muttered, remembering Remus's earlier comment. "There's no use crying, Moony. No use for anything at all."

He reached out a hand to Remus's shoulder. The Professor lay on the sand, gazing sightlessly up at the stars. Remus, who ran circles around him in Charms, who had sometimes relented to do his homework for him. To think that of the Marauders, the only one left alive after tonight would be Wormtail…

A gap suddenly appeared among the Partronuses. One of the Dementors flitted through, reached out one pale, diseased hand towards him. Sirius made no move to avoid it. Will it be painful? he wondered, then thought, Couldn't be any worse than what I've got right now.

A brilliant spectral condor soared over his shoulder and clawed at the fiend's hooded head. The Dementor fell back shrieking. Simultaneously, a hand grabbed his arm and yanked him to his feet.

"You fool!" Lyle bellowed into his face. "Why did you let it through?"

"Why not?" Sirius replied without thinking. "This is as far as we go, we're already dead men any—"

Lyle's palm cracked across his face. Twice. "Fight, damn you! Would you talk like that if your godson were here? I'd sooner kill you than let those monsters have your soul!"

He let Sirius go and shot another Patronus into the crowd. Sirius staggered, then caught himself. Confused images of Harry ran through his brain. Would his godson forgive him if he gave up now?

"Lyle!" Marius shouted. "Something's happening at the lighthouse!'

Everyone turned in time to catch the brilliant flash of light at the top of the cliff. Dementors scattered away from the lighthouse door. The light moved away from the entrance and sped towards them. Then it became clear.

Arabella was pelting down the cliff path towards them. Dear, brave, Arabella, their resident Squib, who could never hope to cast a simple light spell let alone a Corporeal Patronus, was cutting a swath through the Dementors by swinging the Sunburst Lamp around, like an old woman fighting off thugs with a handbag.

"Back, back you devils!" she screeched at the top of her lungs. When she got closer, she shouted, "Lyle, all of you, this way! Get to the lighthouse, quickly!"

Lyle gave a hoarse bellow in return. He had sensed someone running behind Arabella, throwing a brilliant sparrow Patronus at the Dementors pursuing them. Coven.

Watching the pair of them fight through the mob, Sirius felt shame prick deep inside of him.

He shouted, "Everyone! Concentrate fire on our left flank!" At once, the men turned and hurled their spells. A wedge of Patronuses cut through the Dementors, sped towards their rescuers.

"_Run_!"

Sirius dragged Remus onto his back and jogged after the Patronuses as the Dementors attempted to close in from behind. Lyle kept pace with him; the rest covered their retreat.

"Over here!" Arabella cried, swinging the Lamp harder as she hurried on.. "You're nearly through! Marius, don't drag your feet, you wretched old goat! If you slow them down I'll never forgive you!"

"Shut up, woman!" Marius bellowed, wheezing. "I'm moving, damn it!"

"I won't shut up! And if you don't come back to me like you promised I'll never forgive you, do you hear? I'll—"

The handle broke. The Lamp sailed over the heads of the fleeing Dementors, landed on the sand, and died.

For a moment, Arabella stared unbelieving at the broken handle in her grasp, then gasped as towering shadows advanced on her. "Get back!" Coven cried, thrusting her behind him. He raised his wand, but the Dementor's bony hand closed around his throat, cutting off his spell.

"NO!" Lyle cried, hurling himself onward.

"Lyle! Wait!" Sirius shouted. He could no longer hear the blasts of spellfire behind him and did not turn to look at what had happened. Too much was happening too fast. Dementors swarming in from all sides. Arabella crumpling to her knees, hiding her face in her hands. The two brothers shouting for each other. Lyle fighting to get closer. Coven twisting and kicking at the Dementor that held him. Marius crying out brokenly, begging someone to do something. Sirius felt his knees give way from the strain of carrying Remus and he dropped to the sand. This is it, he thought. This is how it ends.

A bolt of red lightning ripped through the sky, and the Dementors scattered in all directions.

Sirius stared. Arabella looked up from her hands. Lyle had ceased fighting in surprise. Coven found himself sitting on the sand, blinking.

The Dementor that had dropped him was pinned flat on the sand by a lambent, crimson spear.

Sirius turned his eyes up, up at the night sky. He thought he was dreaming. A woman hung there amongst the clustered stars, her red robes and hair drifting on the breeze. At first Sirius thought she was floating, but then saw that she was held aloft by a pair of enormous raven wings. As she slowly descended, he saw her eyes blazed with green fire.

Someone close behind him shouted, "_Expecto Patronum!_" and the closest Dementor went reeling, knocked back by a familiar spectral stag. Someone took his arm and pulled him to his feet with wiry strength.

"Sirius! Sirius, it's me! Are you alright? How's Remus?"

The voice was like a jolt to his system. Sirius turned bleary gaze to his rescuer, met a pair of bespectacled, emerald green eyes, that familiar lightning bolt scar—

"It's okay, Sirius," Harry said, offering his shoulder to prop his godfather up. "I've got you. We're here to help."

Two men had appeared behind Harry—Mad-Eye Moody, sending a spectral bear against the Dementors, and a nervous blonde youngster with two wands, looking around as if he didn't know what to do with himself.

Sirius slung his weak wand arm on Harry's shoulder, wondering at the teenager's strength. Tears were burning in his eyes. For the first time, without any explanation, he felt completely safe.

* * *

Harry watched as Dahlia descended, weightless as mist, to land beside her spear. The Dementor squirmed like an insect under a pin. All eyes were on her, the members of the Order with shock on their faces, the Dementors murmuring to themselves in abject wonder. She took her spear and pulled it from the sand. The released Dementor crawled away and vanished among the robes of its comrades.

She stood there a moment, watching without expression, before addressing them.

"I am Dahlia," she said. "I have come for your King."

One of the fiends broke ranks and rushed at her. Dahlia raised a finger as if in warning, then cut the air in a single diagonal stroke. The air rippled as a flaming blade slashed across her attacker's chest. Harry had never heard a Dementor in pain before. This one screeched like a siren as it clawed at its burning robes.

Five more of them fanned out and flew at her right side. Without even looking, Dahlia raised her hand, palm and fingers up, and the sand burst into great arcing talons of glass, impaling the Dementors from below.

Alerted to the greater threat, more Dementors swarmed around her. Those on the water headed for the shore. Those near the lighthouse abandoned their watch and streamed to the beach.

This seemed to suit the Sorceress just fine.

Planting her spear on the sand, she opened her wings and spread her hands down on either side of her. Harry gasped as streams of white fire exploded from her palms, landing on the sand and snaking their way along the length of the beach. Dementors flung themselves out of their path. The pale flame burned higher as it raced along, and soon it covered the shore from end to end in a great, flickering wall.

She's cut them off, Harry realized. She's cut them all off from the mainland.

Dahlia took up her spear and advanced on her foes. Her lance trailed crimson mist, the blade winked in the light of the fiery wall.

"This is Gaé Bolg, the Seven Barbed," she said, "the lightning spear that once sundered a mountain, and ate the heart of Cúchulain's son. Think I will spare you this rod, my misbegotten offspring? _Show me your King!_"

Harry started after her, but a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. "Don't, lad," said Moody. "Help me gather the survivors. We need to get to a more defensive position."

"But Dahlia—"

"Can take care of herself. Better than any of us, it looks like. If you want to do her a favor, stay out of her way."

Before Harry could protest, a roar of thunder caught his ears. He turned to see a web of red lightning streaming from Dahlia's spear, its force blasting several Dementors into the air and leaving several more convulsing on the ground.

Harry suddenly realized that Coven and Arabella were still sitting were they were, watching the proceedings in shock. A fair-haired man had reached the two Order members and was helping them up. Moody pointed his wand and sent a Patronus to cover them. Harry realized he could not stay idle. He had to help.

He ran along the perimeter of the group, whipping his wand in all directions. His Patronus charged alongside him, smashing through the mob of Dementors. In a few moments he had cleared a breathing space for the Order.

But by now the Dementors were almost ignoring them, instead focusing all their energy into bringing the crimson-haired woman down. One of them, heedless of danger, flung itself at Dahlia's spear, plunging her weapon into its chest and grasping the haft to keep her from pulling out. Another Dementor caught the Sorceress in a fierce embrace from behind.

Harry cried out in alarm and rushed forward, his wand raised. The Dementor took hold of her neck, bent its head low for the Kiss.

But Dahlia blew lightly on the Dementor, and the fiend drew back, clutching its head. Its entire face was suddenly blocked in a mask of ice. With a violent tug, Dahlia drew her spear from its trap and spun it, striking both Dementors on their heads and knocking them down.

More of them had massed behind her, but Dahlia's shadow sprang up as a gigantic wolf. The Dementors turned and fled as it hurled itself at them. One was not so lucky. The wolf fell upon it, tearing off its limbs with its jaws. The Sorceress did not even turn around.

Soon Harry saw that the Dementors' numbers counted for nothing. Each time they charged, Dahlia scattered them. Lightning bolts sent the Dementors flying like sheets before a gale. Feathers from her wings hardened into blades, and a single flap buried a storm of knives into her foes. When they managed to surround her, she would vault into the air and land elsewhere to harass their flanks.

Harry rushed back to Sirius and the others, who were gathered at the bottom of the sand dune. "She's broken them!" he shouted.

"No, she has not."

It was the fair-haired man who spoke. Harry was surprised to see that his eyes were shut and marked by scars. "Observe," the man said. "The ones she had hurt are getting back up. One cannot break Dementors. Our only victory is to destroy them all."

"She can do it," Harry said confidently. "She knows how."

"Look," Arabella said, pointing. "She's driven them to the sea."

The Dementors had ceased all attack, were standing now on the sea foam. Dahlia stood her ground on the sand as her shadow wolf returned and became a dark trail at her feet once more. Her hands and her spear smoked with the heat of her spells, and many patches of sand nearby had turned to glass. None of her foes approached. They faced each other, the thousand dark robed figures in the restless water, the red-haired witch with a gleaming spear pointed at them.

Then the crowd began to part.

Harry watched in uncertain dread. The air had taken on a biting chill. Everyone had fallen quiet. Even Aliora had ceased her playing. A figure, taller than the rest, approached from the Dementors' midst. Its very nearness made Harry feel like he would never see the dawn again.

"Who…" Harry began, but part of him already knew.

"The Black Patriarch," Moody said, "the First Dementor."

_Manoch_. Harry watched with growing trepidation as the great shade drifted onto the beach. The hood fell back as the King lifted his head, and there was a universal gasp. The thing's face looked like it had been immersed in acid; the eyes, nose and ears had sloughed off, leaving only gray, moldering flesh, and a gaping, toothless void of a mouth fixed in an eternal silent scream.

The Dementor King and Cimmerian Sorceress faced each other across the sand.

For a long time, no one moved. Time seemed to bend and lose meaning around them. Harry watched Dahlia's back, waiting for a sign that would betray her intentions. He wanted nothing more than to run and stand by her side, but somehow he could not make his limbs work.

The Sorceress spoke first.

"Manoch."

The Dementor King flinched as if the name had pained him. He reached into his robes and drew out the remains of a sword. The hilt was caked with rust and filth, and only a jagged shard the length of a hand remained above the crossguard. But the King held it aloft like a symbol of triumph and doom, and glided on the sand towards the Cimmerian Sorceress.

Dahlia sighed. "Druid, you have walked in nightmares for a thousand years. That was my curse upon you and your kin. But tonight that ends."

From within her own robe she drew something out, something that shone with the brilliance of a star. The King stopped dead in his tracks. Harry gasped in recognition.

"Manoch," said Dahlia, "it is time to wake."

As if he could see, the King focused all his attention on the shining object in Dahlia's palm. The hand with the sword drifted back to his side. Dahlia lowered her hand as well, and the object floated to the King as if drawn by an invisible line.

"What is she doing?" Danny asked. "What is that?"

"It's his soul," Harry said in awe. "She's giving him back his soul."

All eyes were riveted to the shining glass seed as it floated towards the Black Patriarch. The King took it in between his skeletal, putrid fingers, held it up as if to examine it. Then, in a single swift motion, he put it in his mouth and for once, that dreadful maw closed.

As his progeny watched and whispered amongst themselves, the Dementor King swayed on his feet, drew in a deep shuddering breath, then spoke in a hoarse, dry voice that reverberated through Harry's skin.

"_**Deeeaaaaaathhhhh…"**_

It raised its sword high overhead and charged across the sand, still singing in guttural, desperate joy.

"_**Deeeeaaaaaaaathhhhh!"**_

Dahlia leveled her spear and dropped to a stance. The King threw himself at her. She lunged, thrust the point deep into his chest. Harry heard it go in, a short thud followed by a ripping noise as the point emerged from the King's back. The creature barely slowed down, surging forward until he was halfway down the haft. There was no time to shout a warning as he swung the broken sword.

Blood flashed across the sand. Harry found himself held back by Sirius's strong hands, but his gaze was riveted to the sword edge buried in Dahlia's left side.

"Dahlia!" he shouted. "DAHLIA!"

She did not answer, and if she was in pain she did not show it. She passed her hand gently across the King's empty, ravaged face. Harry saw the dark magic drawing away from the King's body, turning back into silvery _aether_, as the Cimmerian Sorceress took back her curse.

The Dementor King reared back his head, let out a great sigh like a man releasing a heavy burden, then slumped forward on the spear. As he did so, his body—robes and all—began to whiten, crumbling into a white, powdery substance. Soon he was just a pile of pale dust at Dahlia's feet.

Dahlia lowered her spear. The Dementors ceased all whispering, watched as the wind picked up bits of pale dust and scattered it onto the beach.

All at once, they turned and fled.

Danny looked as if both eyes were going to pop out of their sockets. "They're buggering off!"

Cries of disbelief went up as they watched the Dementors glide away, the ones at the rear shoving at the ones before, as they tried to put as much distance between themselves and the Sorceress. But Harry ignored them all.

Breaking free of Sirius's grasp, he ran down to Dahlia. She had pulled the broken sword from her side and dropped it onto the sand. She looked exhausted; her wings and shoulders drooped, and her skin seemed nearly transparent. She staggered after her fleeing enemies, but her arms could not even lift her spear.

But she turned at Harry's approach, and there was a rare, gentle smile on her face.

"Is this not good, Harry?" she said. "Is this not good, this final justice?"

She did not wait for an answer. As Harry reached for her, she dropped her spear and took to the sky. He called out as she hung in space, dark wings beating, arms outstretched as if to call wayward children home. Her body glowed with opalescent light.

Harry barely registered the arrival of the Order around him, not even Moody's heavy hand on his arm. His eyes never strayed from her bright form floating high above him.

He could see, with utter clarity, what she was doing.

"She's taking it back," Harry said, nearly choking with emotion. "Her curse. She's taking it all back."

Dahlia's light flashed and filled the entire inlet, and all at once the Dementors began to die.

First they slowed, like toys winding down with age. Some clutched at their comrade before them, others raised their arms as if to ward off some great calamity from the sky. Then, slowly, their robes began to whiten. Pillars of thin white mist rose from their bodies, drifting up and gathering into a shimmering cloud around the Cimmerian Sorceress.

"Merlin's name, Harry," Sirius said, touching his godson's shoulder. "Who is she?" But it was Moody who answered him.

"She's the Rathgrith," he said, "who is also called the Morrígan, the Dark Valkyrie, and the Vampire Queen."

Everyone save Harry turned to stare at him.

"The Demon of the North Sea?" scoffed a burly, bearded man. "That's just a legend, a fairy tale!"

"No," and this time it was the blind man who spoke. "No, not a demon." He raised his head as if remembering, and recited in a soft, lilting voice:

"_When history changes greatly_

_Rathgrith reveals itself, _

_first as an evil demon._

_With its terrible power,_

_it rains death upon the earth_

_until finally it dies._

_But after an age, _

_when history changes anew_

_Rathgrith rises again_

_This time, as a great hero."_

"Rathgrith," Danny muttered. "I've never seen a fairy tale come true like this."

Harry could only smile. How could anyone understand how he felt at this moment? How could he describe to them how Dahlia looked to him? Dark magic was streaming away from the Dementors, turning into pale mist around her. And she, she was ablaze with _numen,_the gathering colors shimmering so brightly it seemed as if the aurora had woven itself into her outstretched wings. She looked like a second dawn, like a goddess reborn. Harry thought he was going to overflow with pride.

_This is why I brought you here_, he told her silently, _so the world can see you the way I see you. _

"Look!" cried Marius, pointing at the Dementors. The white bodies were crumbling into the sea, and as they did so, luminous spectral forms began to rise from their remains. Many of the spectral figures rose to the heavens, vanishing among the clouds. Several turned northeast, back in the direction of Azkaban. Still others drifted down to the beach, towards the bodies of the fallen warriors…

"Souls," whispered Arabella. Tears stood in her eyes, and both hands rose to cover her mouth. "Oh Lyle, if you could only see this! The souls, the poor souls we thought lost to the Dementors! They are free!"

"Of course," said Marius, adjusting his monacle. "Now I see. Souls are indestructible. They must've been trapped in the Dementor's bodies all this time, feeding life energy to those parasites. We should never have allowed such atrocities—"

Everyone turned at the sound of coughing behind them. A prone figure on the sand suddenly sat up.

"Remus?" The word dropped out of Sirius's mouth. "REMUS?"

The worn and haggard professor, looking more like a ghost than a living man, raised bloodshot eyes at the crowd before him. "What…in…Merlin's…name are you all standing around for? Aren't we in a war—?"

He never finished, as a laughing Sirius ran over to him and dragged him in a bear hug. But Remus was not an isolated case. More men and women on the beach were rising from their deathlike sleep, blinking and rubbing the sand from their eyes.

"Help those people up!" the blind man ordered. "Marius, go up to the lighthouse, tell the reserves to bring blankets and hot drinks. Cunningham, start gathering the survivors. Arabella, a headcount!"

"Padfoot," Remus wheezed. "Can't. Breathe."

"Put him down, Sirius!" Coven laughed as he jogged towards them while uncapping a flask of hot chocolate.

Harry looked about, felt himself brimming with triumph at so many lives saved. He had to thank Dahlia, had to introduce everyone to their saviour…

But when he turned his eyes up again, she was gone.

In shock, Harry scanned the skies for her. When he saw light receding towards the top of the southern cliff, he took off towards the cliff path. He heard Sirius call for him, but he rushed on. Time enough for reunions later. Right now, his teacher needed him…

* * *

It took him nearly half an hour to run up the steep path to the top of the cliff, and by the time he made it he was almost out of breath. He paused to survey his dark surroundings, and soon spotted hunched a figure not far from the edge.

"Dahlia!" he called out, but she made no answer. He saw her better as he approached, the glow of the lighthouse showing the way. She knelt on the hard ground with her arms propping her up and her head bowed between them. She looked very, very sick.

"Dahlia?" He hurried towards her, his mind on the wound inflicted by the Dementor King. "_Dahlia_?"

She lifted her head, her face a perfect white oval framed by dark, burgundy hair. When she saw him she hunched down even lower, shivering, wings flattening against her back, a fist balled against her middle as if she had been stabbed.

"Come no closer, Harry," she whispered.

Not understanding, he stepped closer. "Dahlia, what's wrong? Are you alright?"

"Please." Still crawling, she shrunk back from him. "You must keep away."

"But I can help. Let me—"

"STAY WHERE YOU ARE!"

A wave of power shot towards him and Harry felt as if he'd walked into a brick wall. He stepped backwards, gasping. Dahlia moaned as if her spell had somehow hurt her.

"Dahlia, I don't understand!" Harry pressed his hands against the invisible wall.

"F-forgive me, Harry." Her voice was harsh, strained. "I have failed."

"No! No you didn't fail! You were wonderful, you destroyed the Dementors just like you said! But tell me what's wrong—"

"I thought I c-could control it…but this body is…too s-strong for me…"

"What? What's happening to you? Why can't I...no! Dahlia, stop it! Don't—don't hurt yourself!"

Dahlia's arm was tightening around her middle and one hand had clutched around her throat, her sharp nails digging deep into her own flesh. Her mouth was wide open. Harry could see the green veins standing out against the stark white skin of her jaws, the small fangs sharper than he could ever remember them.

Then it came to him. Within the Crystal, all their bodily needs were suspended. But not out here.

Here, there was _thirst_.

"Oh, Dahlia," he whispered, "I'm so sorry. I should have realized. You need blood, don't you?"

She did not answer, only clutched tighter at her middle with one hand. Harry's mind raced for an answer.

"We could find an animal for you," he blurted out. "Deer, or a sea bird, or a sheep, maybe." He had a terrible mental image of breaking into a nearby barn to steal one.

But Dahlia shook her head. "No," she gasped. "No…can't…"

"You can't?" Was it worse than he feared, then? "Do you mean you need human blood?"

Her eyes glazed, seemingly unaware of where she was, she whispered, "Wizard."

Harry felt the chill of the grave spread across his skin. Of course. Not content with becoming a vampire, she had altered even the very core of her undead nature, feeding only on wizard blood to absorb magical ability. The most unthinkable, reprehensible, evil thing…

"Take mine," said Harry.

Dahlia ceased struggling, lifted shocked eyes to him.

Harry swallowed. "You can have mine, but can I...can I trust you...not to harm me? I mean, not take any more than you need?"

"Stay away," she whispered. "Stay away from me."

"Dahlia? Dahlia, please, listen to me." His hands were shaking, but he managed to pick up the pointed rock near his foot without trouble. "You're going to be okay. You've—you've got to let me help you. I can't stand you suffering like this." He gritted his teeth, ran the stone's tip firmly against the skin of his left forearm. He watched a jagged red line appeared on his flesh. "Dahlia, here. Just a little—"

The words died on his tongue as he looked up. Dahlia's eyes had become green lamps. All humanity disappeared from her face. Her gaze was locked onto his wounded left arm like a starving, feral thing.

"D-Dahlia?" The stone fell from his nerveless fingers.

She crawled closer to him, her breath hissing from her open mouth, fangs like dagger points. Harry could not move. Terror closed around his limbs like a cold metal trap. Her hand shot forward, through her own barrier, pulled him close to her. Her grip was as cold and as strong as death, and her gaze burned on his bleeding arm.

Then she jerked her head up, drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and ran her thumb along the gash. The wound closed, and Harry felt the pain ebb away.

"Harry," she breathed. "_Mo mhuirnín dhil, m'fhuil._"

Her voice returned to normal, as did her eyes. With an effort, her body still quivering with need, she stood up and stepped back from him. There was a strange, deep look on her face, and she avoided his gaze in shame.

"Thank you, Harry. But you need not do that."

Seemingly by will alone, she turned from him and walked away. Her steps carried little of her once unnatural grace. She walked towards the sea.

"Dahlia?" Harry shook off his lethargy, tried not to think about just how close they came to disaster. Taking a deep breath of his own, he pursued her.

"I'm sorry," he said to her back.

"You have nothing to be sorry for."

"But…I want to help you. Maybe I can't, not now. But there are people who can. Professor Dumbledore, for instance, he might know how…"

"Harry."

"Yes?"

"You and I cannot stay here much longer. There is much for you to do despite this victory. There are many people waiting to see you are alive and well."

"Yes, I know. But…but I want to help you, Dahlia, if you'd only tell me how."

She paused in her steps. "There is…one thing I want. It will be a difficult thing to give."

He shook his head. "Try me. What is it?"

At last she turned to face him. She was that immortal beauty again, but in a way that seemed inexplicably sad. He felt like he was looking at a photograph of someone he was never going to see again.

"I want to see the sunrise," she said.

_To be continued_

_Author's Notes:_

_The phrase "door of fire" comes from a song of the same name by Japanese group _FictionJunction YUUKA_. You can hear the song from the _Gundam Seed Destiny_anime soundtrack. The meaning as used here is of course completely fictional._

_The legend Lyle recites is culled from the fictional book, "_A Blue Dove for the Princess_", which is quoted repeatedly in the PS2 game _Ace Combat 5: The Unsung War

_By now you'd have guessed I'm a real otaku._

_For those of you versed in Irish mythology, Dahlia's spear is indeed the _Gaé Bolg_, the lightning spear of the hero _Cúchulain_. How Dahlia came by the spear, I don't know. Probably from an antique shop somewhere. _

_The last line of dialogue is attributed to Pope John Paul II. When he was still alive, he would get up at the crack of dawn, and when his subordinates would try to persuade him to rest longer, he would reply, "I want to see the sunrise."_

_Up next: Moon and tide. Three requests. Black feathers and white fire. Harry's path. Another scar. _

_Chapter XXXIV: The Moon in our Hearts_


	35. The Moon in our Hearts

**The Phoenix and the Serpent**

The entire Harry Potter universe belongs to J. K. Rowling. Any original characters belong to the author and may not be used without permission.

**Chapter XXXIV: The Moon in our Hearts**

The Door of Fire was finally quiet. Across the water, the remains of the Dementor Army could no longer resist the waves, and pillars of white dust crumbled and turned the water around them into the color of milk. To the east the sky had gone from black to purple, and the sea a bottomless blue.

The Order converged at the beach, several bringing with them blankets and whatever hot drinks they could spare. Coven took up his Medi-wizard duties, attending to each of the newly revived, who despite some physical weakness all appeared completely normal. Realizing that the Black Barrier was down, Lyle wasted no time unpacking a portable furnace to contact Hogwarts. Hungry for news about what was happening there, the others crowded around him.

Sirius, however, never took his eyes off the cliff, where the two tiny figures stood, barely visible in the darkness. He finally started across the sand towards the cliff path, but caught Moody's look.

"Give him a moment, Sirius." The old man sat on his trunk and took a deep drag from his pipe. "I reckon something important's going on, and he'll not appreciate an interruption."

With a grunt, Sirius sat down on the sand. "I'm uneasy with him alone up there."

"He isn't, so be still. Whatever's going on, I think it's best kept between the two of them." And the Auror adjusted the brim of his hat to peer at the lightening sky.

* * *

"Dahlia," Harry cried, "the sun will kill you!"

The Cimmerian Sorceress walked towards the cliff edge and gazed at the waves rolling in under the swirling clouds. "I thank you for bringing me here," she said, as if she had not heard him. "This is a good place, close to the sea. I think of home."

"You…you…" Harry gaped at her in disbelief. The thoughts were rattling in his skull, all order lost in a rising panic. "You _want _to die?"

Her only response was to stand there silently, her back to him and her eyes to the east. She seemed so thin, so frail, like kindling for a fire.

"You can't just…not after…but why on earth…?"

"Because it is what we all must do, in the end," came her quiet reply, "and it is what I choose."

"There's a difference between dying when it's time and…and killing yourself over nothing! Dahlia, what good is any of this going to do?"

"The world shall be better with one less of my kind." She turned to look at him. "And it will do you good not to be in my shadow. Who would follow you if the Cimmerian Sorceress stood by your side?"

Harry shook his head violently. "Is that it? That's the reason? I don't give a damn what people say. You're no monster, Dahlia. You didn't take my blood even when I offered it. You destroyed all the Dementors—you saved our lives. And if that isn't enough, then you can help me bring down the Dark Lord. Dahlia, you're not evil. How can you do all that and believe you're evil?"

"Because I know the truth," she said. "Did I not say once, Harry, that the truth is far better, no matter how alluring the lie? As I am, my existence is a lie.

"It was not always so. Once, like any human, I breathed air and lived on food and water. I knew how it felt to laugh and hold someone close, to sit in the sun and cradle a babe in my arms. That was truth. That was a life.

"But what am I now, Harry? I walk and speak, but my flesh is cold and my heart is dead. I never age. This unliving body knows only how to bring suffering and ruin. To feed it, I must steal blood—no, more than that, I must steal the magic that flows in wizard blood, and it is a thirst that knows no ending. Harry, do you not see? I have no place among the living, and none of our good intentions can change that."

"Then don't stay here!" He said, stepping forward. "Go back to the Crystal. You won't have to suffer and no one has to die. Then we can find another way."

"No."

"What do you mean, no?" he demanded. "You said we could return there, anytime we wanted to—"

"Yes, Harry. You and I could seek sanctuary there whenever we wish." Her head lowered as if in confession. "But I do not wish it."

"It's the only way for you to survive!" he shouted. "Just hours ago I was twisting myself in knots trying to get you to come out and now you won't go back? Why won't you—"

"Because it is no less a lie, Harry. Ask your own heart. You knew that in there I was an insect in amber, existing but not alive."

"It's better than giving up, isn't it? Better half alive than all dead!"

She did not answer, but took a step further to the east. He ran and stood before her, as if he could block the dawn with his own body.

"You can't do this. I won't let you kill yourself."

"Harry," she said, "_I am already dead._ I had forsaken my life a thousand years before. I am no different than those Dementors melting into the sea—"

"That's NOT true! That's twisted and wrong and untrue, and I won't let you believe that! I'm not giving up. Dumbledore could help us. You just need to stay in the Crystal until we can find a way to cure you!"

But even as he said this, Harry realized he was grasping at straws. Already he could hear Dumbledore's words at the end of his 4th Year—"No spell can reawaken the dead."

And the futility of their situation dawned on him.

"I don't understand," he whispered, "I don't understand it. You've tried so hard. Haven't you suffered enough? Why can't you stay?"

"Harry."

"To hell with the war!" he shouted. "I don't care even if you can't help me! I want to help _you_! Even if I can't, at least let me try!"

"Harry…"

"I don't care if it means you have to stay in the Crystal! I won't let you do this! I won't let you kill yourself! I WON'T—"

"Harry. _Treibdhireas_."

Only the force of habit stopped Harry from talking. He breathed deeply, and almost against his will his thoughts cleared.

Returning to the Crystal would indeed save her, at least for a time…but then what? She could never leave it without subjecting herself to this terrible, inhuman hunger. She'd be a prisoner there, perhaps forever, with nothing to look forward to. They would simply be postponing the inevitable.

But to Harry, that was all right. Because the inevitable didn't have to mean now. Why in God's name did it have to be now?

His fifth exhale came out a sob. Defiantly, he rubbed his eyes and looked back at her—and saw that she too was weeping. Twin paths of scarlet marred her beautiful face, and they decided it for him. She was human. He stepped forward and put his arms around her. She gave a small gasp but did not pull away.

"I forgive you," he said. "Don't you see? Even if the people you've killed don't, even if the whole world never does...I forgive you."

Her arms clutched at him, and her ebony wings circled them like a second embrace. "Oh, if I could be human again," she said in a fragile voice. "If I only could, I would stand by you. I would watch your children grow and guard all that you love..."

"You can!" He stared up at her. "That's all I want. Please. Please stay."

She held him close a moment more, then released him. She wiped her tears and shook her head; the tresses drifted from his shoulders like curtains of red rain.

"Come," she said, "let us watch the sea together."

She led him to the edge of the cliff and they looked down at the restless white surf. It was a while before she spoke again.

"The tide rushes to and fro, touching the sand only for a time, then it is gone. The sea is beholden to the will of the moon and is never the same. Such is its beauty. How sad if the ocean had no moon to reach for, if it was songless and still, like an unbeating heart.

"My life is like this tide, Harry, and my name like the moon. Tell me, if you remember, what is my true name, and what does it mean?"

"Eirin," he said after a moment. "It means 'peace.'"

"Do you remember too what Volarius told me long ago, when I sat beside him under the tree? He said he could not let me die, knowing even in death I would have no peace. He drew me into the Crystal that I may have the chance to fulfill my name.

"Harry, no one was ever meant to remain in the Crystal Cage. It was made such that those within could someday leave, to follow their lives until death. Everything human dies, it defines what human is. Arlen reminded me of this. You reminded me of this. You told me, 'freedom is better.' And so it is, I see it now. When I turned my back on my humanity, I became a sea without tides.

"I choose to die not out of misery or despair. I choose it that I may cease be a thing of the night. I choose it that I may be true to the name my mother gave me. I choose it that I may be free.

"Will you let me be free, my Harry?"

"That's not fair," Harry said. "That's completely unfair. You don't deserve this. You must have a chance to live…to be happy…"

Her fingers wiped the last tear from his face. "Then let this be a final lesson between us," she said. "Not all happiness may be found on this earth. To own one's death, to be welcomed by those beyond—that too, is happiness. I shall wait for you there, across the Sea of Miracles, and we shall meet again. No, Harry, dry your eyes. This is more than fair; it is just."

The breeze was in her hair, and it ruffled the dark feathers of her great wings. Weak as she was, Harry thought he'd never seen her more beautiful. No longer the cold and distant loveliness of stars and mountain peaks, but as she was meant to be, a hundred lifetimes ago.

"There are some things I would ask of you," she said. "When am I am gone, would you do your best to fulfill them?"

Harry could not find his voice, so he just nodded.

She smiled. "There is a girl close to your heart, is there not? Do you love her?"

He was taken aback, but nodded all the same.

"Then love her, with all your might and being. Remember that if you see love as a weakness, it shall be so, and if you see it as strength, it too shall be so. Help her to rise as you rise, to be strong as you are strong, that she may keep pace with you and with the seasons of her heart. Will you do this, Harry?"

He nodded.

"My second request is this: teach Singularity to those would learn, and learn from them, as you have taught me and learned from me. Your power is meant for the world—it is meaningless if it can empower only yourself. Share it, that no Dark Lord shall rise in this land ever again."

Another nod.

"And last," she paused, and for a long moment her searching eyes turned inward. "There will be one waiting for you at the foot of this cliff. He has long been a prisoner, but the walls are his own heart. I ask that you free him, as you have freed me.

"Will you do these things, Harry?"

Though his throat was nearly too tight to speak, he managed to say, "I will."

"Then all is well." She smiled, turned to look at the east again. "All is well."

Silence settled between them. Harry could see that the dawn was nearly here; the eastern sky had turned from purple to pink, and the horizon was now a bright, golden line. He had to tell her something. He had to convince her not to do this, because it was unfair and pointless and miserable and there had to be another way.

But no words came, no soul-saving argument he could use to turn her heart. There was only this, a quiet moment by the intemperate sea. Standing by her side as the horizon bloomed and the clouds burned.

"Look," she said. "Look, Harry. With this dawn my long night ends, and you shall see a great many tomorrows. That alone makes me smile. The best is yet to come for you, son of James and Lily."

He raised his eyes to hers. "I am your son, too."

Another drop of blood fell from her cheek. She drew her hand across her eyes like a little girl. Wordlessly she reached for his face, to caress his chin, to brush the hair from his brow, to trace the curve of his ear.

"Go. Go, my beloved child. Do not linger, for I may suffer a little."

He lowered his head and did not move.

"Harry…"

"I'm not leaving you," he said, sitting down. "You can't make me. I won't let you be alone."

Though she said not a word, there was mix of gratitude and pity in her gaze. She knelt some distance away, facing the east with her eyes closed and her palms on her knees. And so they waited.

Harry guarded for any change in her. He could see clearly now in the dim morning light. She held herself very still, her bearing as regal as he could ever remember. Her calmness made him think of the statue of her and Arlen that he found on the shores of the Crystal Cage, seemingly a lifetime ago. Perhaps the dawn would be merciful, he thought. Perhaps the light won't hurt her, or perhaps her long years had already made her invulnerable. Yes, please let it be.

She opened her eyes just a little. "Breathe with me, Harry."

He did so, but a sudden gust of wind caught his attention. Harry turned to the east, just in time to see the tiny blinding curve of the sun clearing the horizon. Fingers of golden light pushed through violet clouds and turned the ocean to fire. It was the most beautiful morning he'd ever seen, and he'd never dreaded anything more.

"Harry."

He turned to her, and his mouth dropped open in horror. Steam was rising out of the folds of her robes. Angry red splotches appeared on her exposed skin, and in some places her flesh cracked like arid ground. She held herself very still, betraying no pain, but the veins stood out on her clenched fists.

"Breathe," she said.

And so Harry breathed. He breathed as he watched the flesh of her hands blacken, scorch, and shrink around her bones. He breathed as the air around her shimmered and the terrible heat of her body pulsed on his own skin. He breathed as red tears rolled down her cheeks, only to dry and turn to steam. Until the feathers fell in clusters from her dark wings, like leaves from a withering tree. Until the welts on her skin began to char, and her hair in the wind glowed with hints of flame.

She never once cried out.

"Eirin," he said. "Breathe."

She raised her face to the sky, opened her mouth, and inhaled. That was all it took. White fire burst from within her, spreading across her body, and the last black feathers fled with the sudden blast of air. Where Dahlia once knelt there was now a billowing pillar of flame, pale as the moon in full glow, and Harry had to shield his eyes.

There would be no remains, he realized. Not even any smoke. She meant to go and she was gone, like a phoenix without ashes.

Harry's heart shattered, but a small gasp was all the sound it made.

* * *

Somehow he found himself walking back down the cliff path. He caught a glimpse of a crowd waiting for him on the beach below, but he hardly cared. Mostly he saw the multitude of black feathers the wind had scattered on the ground, like petals from a dark flower. He bent to pick one up, then stopped himself. What was the point? They were never hers to begin with, those wings. She created them to take on the guise of a Celtic goddess. These feathers were no worthy memento.

He had nothing of hers, except for her words and the look on her face.

He felt as if someone had hollowed out his chest put something cold and dead inside, and a single question rang through his head and numbed his mind: _Why did I let her go?_

"Harry!"

He raised his head as someone came running up the path towards him. Sirius.

They met halfway down the cliff and Sirius embraced him. Harry could feel his godfather's relief in the rough hug and was glad for it, but he also marked after they disengaged that Sirius made sure to check both sides of his neck.

"You're alright?" Sirius asked.

"No," said Harry. "Yes. No."

Sirius did not seem to understand, but he took Harry's shoulders and guided him down towards the beach.

"Sirius," Harry said after a while, "what happens after we die? Do you know? Is there someplace we go? We live on after we die, right, and it's not the end?"

"I'm sorry, Harry, I honestly don't know," Sirius answered, then added, "You'll be okay."

"Yeah," Harry replied, and thought,_me, The Boy Who Lived. Isn't it great that in the end, I'm the one who's always okay?_

But Dahlia's face brushed across his mind, calming his thoughts. Thinking that way somehow felt disrespectful to her, after what she did. She did not want him to make himself miserable.

Then he remembered her request. _There will be one waiting for you at the foot of this cliff…a prisoner…_

Harry turned to look at Sirius. Dahlia said he needed help, but in what way? How was he still a prisoner? Did she mean to help prove his innocence? But that could be done easily enough with the Order's help. _The walls are his own heart._ What on earth did she mean?

I'll find out, Harry said to himself as he followed the path of dark feathers. I'll do everything she asked. I'll help Sirius, I'll teach Singularity to anyone who'll listen, and I'll do everything I can to protect—

_Ginny._

Harry's heart skipped a beat. Now there was a reason to hurry to the shore—he had to find out what was happening at Hogwarts, where the second half of the Dark Army was poised to attack. If there was a battle going on there, then their day was far from over.

But there was no air of urgency when they arrived at the beach. People were laughing, talking excitedly and drinking from steaming mugs. Some were slapping each other on the back.

"What's going on here?" Sirius said.

Remus, mug in hand and wrapped in a blanket, lurched towards them. "Glad to see you're alright, Harry," he said, sounding like he hadn't used his voice in a year.

Sirius frowned. "Shouldn't you be lying down or something?"

"I want to be the one to bring you up to date," Remus said. "It seems we needn't worry about Hogwarts."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked. "What about the giants? The Dark Army?"

Remus smiled. "We left quite a dent in Lord Voldemort's plans. The Dark Army waited all night for the Dementors to show up—it seems they didn't want to launch a full- scale attack without support. Dumbledore decided to settle matters for them. Just before dawn, the Centaur tribes stormed out of the Forbidden Forest and ambushed the Death Eater encampment."

"Did they win?" demanded Sirius.

"They took the Dark Army completely by surprise. It was bedlam, fighting everywhere." He nodded to Sirius. "Remember those militant Quidditch teams that helped us take down the Death Eaters in Willow Hill? The ones the Parents' Association was so eager to break up? "

"You're joking!" Sirius said. "They were fighting too?"

"They _routed_the enemy. The giants fled when the students started bombing them from the sky. From what I hear, the Weasley children distinguished themselves again with another heroic charge. I think we'll need to extract the full story from them once we get back."

"Then…Hogwarts is safe?" Harry said.

Remus grinned. "The best part is, all your friends have lived to tell about it." He took Harry's hand and gripped it tightly. "I cannot begin to thank you for saving my life, Harry. I owe you my very soul."

Harry's mouth dropped open. 'But—"

More men arrived, grabbing his hand. Sirius laughed and gripped Harry's shoulder tightly. "They must be celebrating at Hogwarts right this moment. We should be joining them. What are we waiting for? Commander!" He waved to the golden-haired blind man, who was busy conferring with his advisors.

Harry watched the grateful crowd around him and felt incredibly lonely. Everyone seemed so happy and relieved after surviving impossible odds. He could not begrudge them that, and he was glad to have a home to return to. But a part of him ached that no one else could understand the terrible loss that came with this victory. He was alone in his grief.

His whole body stiffened at a familiar scent in the air.

Remus noted the expression on his face. "Harry? Is something wrong?"

Harry did not respond. He took a few steps forward, pushing his way through the gathering. The smell on the wind grew stronger than sea brine, the old stench of blood and murder and every little childhood fear he had, all gathered as one.

_Click. Click. Click._

His eyes scanned the crowd. "Mad-Eye! Danny!"

The old Auror and his godson, sitting together on the sand, turned towards him. One look at his face and they instantly drew wands.

"Harry," Sirius said, "what's wrong?"

Harry shouted his reply above everyone else's voices. "It's here!"

Even before he finished his warning, a dark shape lunged over the sand dune to his far left. It landed hard before the crowd, its powerful legs spraying sand in all directions, and the ear-splitting screech it gave in its two voices killed all talk and laughter.

The great beast loomed as large and as dark as the night itself. No sunlight reflected on its chitinous armor. Its open jaws dripped strings of saliva, and its twin mandibles clicked, promising torn limbs and spilt blood. Everyone froze at its presence, but it turned the unblinking moons of its eyes at Harry alone.

Harry met that gaze without flinching.

"Protect the boy!" bellowed Moody. He and Danny closed ranks in front of Harry. and together fired a round of hexes.

The curses all bounced off the beast's armored face, but this attack seemed to jar the Order into motion. Wands appeared, bodies moved to surround the new threat. Sirius pushed past Moody and Danny with his wand drawn, and even Remus took hold of Harry's shoulders to shield him.

A hail of curses fell upon the monster, but it shook them off as if they were drops of rain. A blow from its claws sent a man spinning through the air. Harry caught the rich iron tang of blood, wails of agony, the hiss of shifting sand, the crack of spells shattering against unyielding flesh—

"STOP! ALL OF YOU, STOP FIGHTING!"

Harry pushed through the gap between Moody and Danny. His two bodyguards stopped their casting in surprise. The beast swung its massive head towards him.

Harry strode forward. Sirius grabbed his arm as he passed. "Harry, what are you doing? Get away—"

Harry shook off his godfather's hand, his eyes locked with the monster's gaze. "I said stop fighting! Leave him alone!" He barely recognized the voice as his own; like Dahlia's, it seemed like distant thunder, carrying an undercurrent of power. All the members of the Order ceased their attacks, and even the beast fell still.

Ignoring Sirius's pleas, Harry came closer still, staring deep into those empty white orbs. To everyone else, this thing was a monster, an abomination. But Harry could see its _numen_, dark magic flowing throughout its physical body like putrid water, and understood the full meaning of Dahlia's last request.

"You know me," he said to the beast. "I'm the one you want, aren't I?"

"Harry!" Sirius cried, but Moody hissed at him to be silent. The beast made not a move, kept its wide eyes on the boy standing before it.

Harry took a deep breath. He felt no fear, none of the debilitating weakness he'd felt in the presence of this monster. It had no power over him now that he knew its nature. All he felt was pity.

"You're here for my life," he said. "Voldemort sent you to kill me. But he tricked you into it. I'm not what you really want, am I?"

The beast growled and took a single step back. Its head swayed to and fro in confusion. Harry held its gaze, never blinking.

"What you want," he said, "is to remember who you are."

He took another deep breath, focusing on the beast's _numen_. Dark magic melted from its body and flowed towards him. The monster took another step back and began to shrink.

"What you want," Harry said, "is to be where your sons are."

It gave a low whine and sank to its haunches. Everyone watched in rapt silence as the flesh steamed and its armored flesh peeled away. Flakes of its hard skin covered the sand. It shrunk to the size of a man.

"He did something terrible to you," Harry said, "He took away the ones you love. He told you your pain wouldn't end, unless you took my life." He kept drawing the dark magic unto himself and willing it back into _aether_. A fine white mist surrounded him, and he could taste the magic suffusing his body. More than that, Harry could sense the terrible thoughts Voldemort wove into the spell to bring it to life.

He knew, at that moment, how to break the enchantment.

"Mad-Eye," he said, "do you have a knife with you?"

"What?" Sirius asked. "What are you going to do?"

The beast crashed onto its side, its mouth hanging open and struggling for breath. It looked nearly skeletal now. Without breaking eye contact, Harry raised his hand, palm up. "Someone lend me a knife."

He felt the cool leather handle of a dagger slip into his hand. Harry took one last deep breath and approached the fallen beast. It was a sad, sick thing, oozing black liquid from every orifice. His heart wrenched to know there was a man somewhere in there, driven by hatred and now exhausted beyond measure.

"Do you want to be free?" Harry asked.

The beast gave a weak whimper, a sound that was nearly human. With the knife, Harry drew a shallow cut along his forearm, then raised his wounded arm over the beast's face. Blood dripped from his broken skin and into its jaws.

At the taste of his blood, the monster gave a quiet sigh, then lowered its head and finally shut its pale eyes. Harry touched its face as its breathing stilled forever.

"Rest now," he murmured. "They're waiting for you."

For a long time, he simply knelt there, stroking the beast's face. No one around moved to approach, until Harry raised his eyes to meet Sirius's gaze. There was concern on his godfather's face, but his eyes were also wide with amazement.

"Harry?" he said. "Are you…alright?"

Tears brimming in his eyes, Harry smiled and looked down at his wounded arm.

"I am," he said. "This will just be another scar."

_To be continued_

_Up next: A castle in the sun. The Ravenclaw thug. Welcome respite. Chance encounters in dim corridors._

_Chapter XXXV: Homecoming_


	36. Homecoming

"_For Death is a master whom none may refuse_

_That which you love, you are doomed to lose."_

-- Unknown centaur poet, sumac on parchment

***

"_Though they go mad they shall be sane,_

_Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;_

_Though lovers be lost love shall not,_

_And death shall have no dominion."_

-- Dylan Thomas, "And Death Shall Have No Dominion"

* * *

**Chapter XXXV: Homecoming**

The day Harry Potter returned to Hogwarts, spring's first breath was stirring against the cold face of the castle keep. The wind still howled from the upper reaches of the sky, but a network of fine cracks had appeared on the once perfect mirror surface of the lake. In the courtyard, water dripped from the leafless branches of the trees and formed pools of water on the flagstones, earning a curse or two from those not too sure of foot. If one listened carefully, they could hear the singing of an unseen bull thrush, telling anyone who would listen that daybreak had come.

It was a dawn that followed a long, terrible night of waiting; professors, volunteers, and what few men the Order of the Phoenix could spare as guards watched their borders from behind crenellated walls. Everyone else lay awake in their beds, dreading the moment when the war horn would blow, and the forces of the Dark Lord would come raging out of the Forbidden Forest.

But the alarm never came.

Just before daybreak, youngsters came bursting into common rooms, yelling that the Broom Brigade was on the move. People flung off their blankets and hurried to their windows and balconies, just in time to catch a glimpse of cloaked figures riding south against the grey, shrouded sky. As one they hurried to the south wall, forming an uneasy crowd, and again there was nothing to do but wait.

When the eastern sky turned rose and gold, someone cried out and pointed at dark specks in the distance—the riders returning. Another asked if they were back in full numbers, but it was too dim for anyone to tell. But by the time the Brigade began to descend towards the battlements, the crowd began to cheer. The lead rider had raised their banner, the insignia of three united Houses of Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Gryffindor: a sure sign of victory.

The people were falling all over each other trying to reach up to the Brigade, who were circling in an effort to find someplace to land. One of them, a small girl whose long hair glowed like sunfire in the morning light, dropped out of formation and hovered just over their heads. The crowd laughed and waved up at her, but she merely glared down at them and placed the tip of her wand near her mouth. Her voice shattered eardrums.

"YOU LOT CLEAR OUT OF THE WAY! WE NEED TO GET SOMEONE TO THE HOSPITAL WING! MOVE IT!"

The crowd scrambled to make room as the Brigade lowered a net containing an unconscious, auburn-haired boy. The red-haired girl landed and rushed forward to pull him up. Some of the crowd moved to help her. Others merely gaped, because they couldn't understand how a girl so young could be so beautiful and so fierce at the same time.

* * *

The Battle of the Forbidden Forest happened as thus:

During the night, the army of Death Eaters, Weepers and giants swept in from the south and made camp just outside the forest border. Fully believing that the Dementor Army was coming in from the east to support them, the generals thought it would be a simple matter to wait until morning, batter down Hogwarts's thin defenses, and lay siege to the castle until those within inevitably succumbed. But when dawn arrived and no word came of the Dementors' arrival, the generals began to worry.

They found an even greater reason to worry when the first twangs of bowstrings sounded through the air and a great war cry erupted from the skies above them, swiftly followed by a hail of Dungbombs. Dumbledore, it seemed, had decided to spare the Death Eaters any further waiting, and sent the combined might of the Broom Brigade and the centaur army to meet them.

Because of their superior numbers, the Dark Army had not been expecting a pre-emptive strike. They put up a clumsy defense, the giants swatting wildly at the broom riders, the Weepers yowling and snapping at the centaurs, who charged in, fired volleys of arrows, then quickly retreated. Commanders shouted for order, but several Weepers of the front line broke formation to pursue the centaurs. This proved a costly mistake.

The Brigade dived down and bombed the attackers, taking them out. As the gas rose into the air, a centaur shaman summoned a great gust of wind, spreading the noxious cloud across the field and through the rest of the Dark Army. Formations broke as Death Eaters fell down gagging. Without orders, the giants fought the best way they could—by swinging their clubs at anything that moved. Chaos ensued.

Disaster and victory came at nearly the same time. As the Brigade's fastest flyers, Ginny's team led the bombing. Every run was as clockwork—dive in, make the drop, pull up to reload. But on their last run, the leader of the giants, the largest and burliest of their number, got lucky. He threw a rock that managed to clip the broom of Anthony, one of Ginny's squadmates. The boy tumbled 30 feet and crashed among the branches of a pine tree. The giant would have swatted him from the treetop like a stunned fly, had Ginny not intervened.

Screaming a shrill war cry that made the giant's gaze snap up towards her, she streaked back into the fray, circling the giant's head like an angry hornet. The giant swiped at her with his club, but she swerved beneath each blow. In the midst of this, Ron and Cho descended, grabbed Anthony and spirited him to safety.

But Ginny wasn't finished. When the giant lifted his club for an overhead blow, she charged and fired a Stunner right in his eye. Howling in pain, the giant dropped his weapon and clutched at his face, giving Ginny leeway to drop low and set his toes on fire. The giant then leaped straight into the air, slipped on his club, and slammed his head against the sharp side of an exposed rock. It was the last thing he ever did.

After seeing their leader fall, the giants all turned and fled, trampling anyone in their way. Seconds later, the Dark Army was in full retreat.

* * *

All over the castle, halls and classrooms were ablaze with the news of triumph. The Dark Army, once feared to be the strongest force assembled in Britain, had been scattered by no more than a group of children and a few centaurs. The sudden victory came like a divine wind, swelling their hearts like sails. There was laughter and songs, and some decided it was not too early in the day to dip into their cups.

In the highest tower of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore watched the crowd from his balcony, then turned his gaze west to the mountains across the lake. His long thick beard could do nothing to hide his wide smile.

In her chambers close to the dungeons, Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor Adrianna Summershield lay quietly in her bed, her bleary eyes watching the ceiling as she tried to ignore the commotion outside her door. She would not be joining the celebrations. A great disaster had been averted today, but this gave her no comfort. For as long as the castle still stood, she a role to play. And play it she would, to whatever end it led her.

And in Gryffindor Tower, the common room door burst open as the homunculus came rushing in. In his haste he collided with one of the small round tables and went sprawling. Dusting himself, he set the table right side up and paused to catch his breath. His heart was still galloping from the run and the morning's excitement.

There was no one around at the moment as all the Gryffindors were outside celebrating. He wanted nothing more than to join them, but Ginny had a task for him. Anthony lay badly wounded in the hospital wing, bleeding from wounds caused by his terrible fall. He had gone into shock the moment they put him in the net and was unconscious when they returned to Hogwarts. Ginny had asked Jamie to fetch her blanket, the deep blue one with the moon and stars pattern, which her mother had enchanted to keep its user warm. She said it was the least she could do for her teammate. As if she'd already forgotten she'd saved his life.

Though Jamie was concerned for their injured friend, inside he was also burning with pride for Ginny. By now, stories of her courageous act were circulating the castle; he'd even overheard one centaur refer to her as "the Giant-Slayer."

But there was time for celebrating later. He made his way up the stairs of the girl's dormitory (it was easy to fool the sliding staircase once you figured out the secret, which was to climb backwards) and found the blanket. He hurried back down and had just shut the portrait hole door when he heard a voice above him speak.

"Boy."

He looked up and saw a tall, wiry man standing in the picture frame; the Fat Lady looked quite put out while she stood to one side to make room for him. Jamie recognized the thin man as Phineas Nigellus, one of the headmasters of Hogwarts whose portrait adorned the walls of Dumbledore's office.

"Can I help you, Professor?" he asked.

The pale, thin man's gaze missed nothing. "Dumbledore had truly outdone himself…you look exactly like that boy, from tip to toe (sad to say, down to the vacant look on your face)."

The homunculus blinked. "Excuse me?"

Nigellus waved the question away. "I have a message for you from the headmaster. He wishes to see you in his office as soon as possible. If not sooner."

Had it been four months ago, when he was new to the world, the homunculus would not have hesitated for a second. But now he had other priorities. "Thank you," he said. "May I ask why he wishes to see me?"

The old man heaved a sigh. "Why do these simians nowadays see themselves fit to question every single instruction from their superiors? I don't presume to know if Dumbledore wishes to speak with you about anything (assuming you yourself can communicate beyond pointing and grunting), but know this..." His gaze sharpened. "An acquaintance of yours is about to return to Hogwarts via the back door in the south wing. Dumbledore has already sent a student to fetch him. They're surely on their way back now, and it would be completely detrimental for the two of you to be seen together. Do I make myself clear?"

At first Jamie didn't understand. It was as if he had opened a door in his head and entered into a vast, white silence. His limbs had lost all feeling—could no longer even feel the warmth of the blanket in his hands. He was barely even aware of the word, "What?" dropping from his lips.

"Are you as deaf as you are slow, you lout?" Nigellus hissed. "Go to the headmaster's office at once. Your services are no longer required." And he vanished through the left side of the portrait.

"What was that all about?" asked the Fat Lady.

But Jamie was already turning away, striding down the hall with unseeing eyes, the blanket clutched between numb fingers. It can't be, he thought, it can't be. Not after all this time. And—

_Your services are no longer required._

And what's going to happen to me now? he wondered. Was he going to be cast off, like an old shoe that no longer fit? He didn't know. But there was one thing he knew for sure.

He had to see Ginny, to know what she knew and learn how she felt. And to see with his own eyes if it was true…that Harry Potter had indeed come home.

* * *

Harry decided that Side-along Apparation was not going to be his favorite means of transport. He felt a moment of implosion, like he was a balloon forcibly losing its air, then the world rearranged itself around him and let him breathe again. He was no longer by the sea but on a mountainside, standing not on sand but on stone. The air was coiling and misty and smelled sweetly of pine.

"Steady now." Moody's hand caught Harry's shoulder as he staggered forward. Harry looked about as the others appeared around him. They all stood with him, the survivors. Sirius, Remus, Mad-Eye, Danny, Lyle and the members of the Order, the Aurors. They had only the clothes on their backs, what little supplies they had left, and two weapons their owners no longer needed—the enchanted arquebus Foe-Hammer, and the legendary spear Gaé Bolg. As one, the survivors stood together on the mountainside and looked out over the valley below.

"This is the closest we can get to Hogwarts through Apparation," Lyle said to Harry. "From here we will travel through more conventional means. I have arranged with Professor Dumbledore to have us escorted to the school."

Harry nodded, barely understanding. His eyes were riveted on the castle, so close he could cup it in the palm of his hand. It had been sunset when he left it, Hogwarts, all blues and purples against the dark mirror of the lake. Now the dawn was shining strongly on its ramparts and minarets. Its stones gleamed like amber, the high windows like burnished gold. The silver sheet on the lake would leave him snow-blind in moments. He wondered briefly if this was how knights and kings felt long ago, coming home after many years in the Crusades.

"Sanctuary," whispered Kingsley, staring at the flying banners. "One can hardly believe there's still any left in the land."

"And yet, here it is," said Remus. "Perhaps there will always be sanctuary in the world, as long as there are men and women willing to defend it."

"That is why we're here," said Lyle. "We come seeking it, we come to preserve it, and its hearth fire shall be warmer for our spark."

"And today, Harry Potter returns in triumph to Hogwarts," said Sirius, putting his hand on godson's shoulder. "People will talk about it for years."

"Maybe," Harry replied. He felt his heart swelling at the sight before him, but it was a painful kind of joy. "I can't help but regret…. that some who should be sharing this day with us are gone."

He turned to look at the Gaé Bolg in Kingsley's hands, then to the Foe-Hammer slung on Danny's back. A part of him wanted to weep, but he drew a deep breath, clutched at the Crystal Cage around his neck, and the feeling passed. He had enough of tears for now. They would surely come again later, during inopportune moments, like unwelcome guests at a party. But today he was going back to everything he'd left behind, and that was worth every bit of joy he could muster. Today he was going home.

No one said anything for awhile. It was their moment of peace, won after a long, sleepless night of battle, and was worth savoring. Presently, Moody pointed at the South wall of the castle. A group of broom riders was speeding towards them. It took them only a minute to traverse the Forbidden Forest and the lake. Soon they were circling overhead like hawks preparing to land.

One of the riders, though, streaked straight down to land heavily right before them. Some of Harry's guards raised their wands in alarm, but to their amazement the rider scrambled from his broom, throwing off his headgear to reveal a shock of bright red hair and a long face that trembled with joy.

"Ron," Harry said, choking on the word even as his best friend threw his arms around him.

* * *

"Where is he?"

Arms crossed, Ginny tapped her foot as she leaned against the wall beside the door of the Hospital Wing. "I sent him up to Gryffindor Tower ages ago. What's keeping him?"

"Relax, Ginny," Cho said as she sat on the bench beside her. "I know you're worried about Anthony, but he's in good hands now."

But Ginny found she couldn't relax. The adrenaline had long drained from her body, leaving her tired and hollow and fueling the need for something to do, anything to assure her that everything was still under control. Anything but this interminable waiting.

"I know, I know," she said to Cho, "but you saw how bad the wound was, didn't you? You've seen how red his robes were? And how cold his skin felt?"

Cho cast her eyes down. She did not need any reminding how close to death their friend was. "Madam Pomfrey will take care of him. She's never let us down before."

Ginny sighed. "I know. I guess I'm just…I worry too much."

"You're tired. Why don't you go up and get some rest? You haven't slept."

Ginny gave her a wan smile. "Neither have you, right? None of us have. But I can't rest now, I've still got a lot to do. My brother ran off for some reason, so now I have to check with Andy and make sure our brooms are stocked right. Then I have to meet up with the choir to finalize our practice sessions for the week. Then I have to—"

"If you do all that today," said Cho, shaking her head, "you'll wind up in the Hospital Wing yourself."

"Well," said Ginny, sitting down beside her. "I can't get started unless…unless Harry shows up with that blanket."

They sat together quietly for a minute, until Cho said, "Say, Ginny, I wanted to ask you something."

"Yes?"

"Is everything alright between you and Harry?"

Ginny gave her a bemused look.

Cho went on, "The two of you…you're not together, are you?"

"Huh?"

"I was wondering…I know it isn't my business. It's just that everyone says you two are going out. But I look at you and that's not what I feel." She paused. "You seem to hold Harry at arm's length."

"Do I?" Ginny propped her elbows on her knees and held her chin in her hands.

"It's kind of obvious to me," Cho went on. "Though I also have to say that he thinks the world of you. And you're both my friends, so I'm concerned if you two are okay with each other."

Ginny gave a sad smile. "What a pair we make, huh?"

"Ginny?"

"We're…not together the way people think. Not yet, at least."

"How come? You two look so happy together."

"Oh, we're great friends, no doubt about that. But the truth is, I…I really don't know Harry. I thought I did once. But it's all just things I made up in my mind…he must be like this, like that, and so on. Then I got to know him better, and the image in my mind changed. There were so many sides of him I didn't realize, and…"

"But does it matter?" Cho asked.

Ginny lowered her gaze. "Now that I have a chance to think about it, maybe it's not him that's changed after all. Maybe I've changed. After everything I've gone through, I've turned into someone else that…that may not be right for him."

Cho was silent for a while, digesting all this. "Well," she said. "That sounds complicated."

Ginny looked back at her. "Is that really all you're worried about?

"To be honest, I was most concerned about you. I was afraid you were holding back on your feelings."

"Holding back?"

"That's what it seemed to me. Like I said, you hold him at arm's length. But he's not like that, Ginny. You might not think you're the right one for him, but he—"

Before she could say more, the patter of light feet drew their attention as Dennis Creevey came tearing down the hallway.

"Oh, Ginny!" he wheezed, "There you are! I've got a message for you from Hermione!"

"Shhh," said Ginny. "Keep your voice down. Madam Pomfrey can't be disturbed right now."

Dennis lowered his voice, but still spoke in a hurried tone. "Hermione says it's urgent! She wants you to meet her at the south entrance, says there's something there you have to see!"

Ginny and Cho exchanged glances. "It's okay," said Cho. "I'll stay and wait for news. You do what you have to do."

"Thanks. Please give the blanket to Anthony for me." Ginny got up and headed for the stairs. "Did she mention what it was, by the way?" she asked Dennis.

The younger boy only shook his head. "No, but she said it was really important. As in really-really-really-really—"

"OK, I get it." Rolling her eyes, she proceeded down to the ground floor.

* * *

Danny hated flying. The matter was settled long ago—heights just weren't for him. He'd sooner face another battalion of Death Eaters than rise any further than his own height above solid ground. But there was no other way to get to the school other than by air, so Danny clutched at the shoulders of the broom rider sitting in front of him, squeezing hard whenever they went too fast or rose too high, until the boy demanded he loosen his grip before he made them crash.

Danny was afraid of heights, yes, but there was something more he feared: that huge castle before him, looming closer and closer, filling his eyes and his heart. It was all the more dreadful because even as he feared it, he also longed for it.

The first time he looked upon the school, it was from a little boat on the lake, surrounded by a number of wide-eyed little First Years. When he left it, it was on foot, alone on a dusty road, trying not to look back and trying not to cry. He had lived in that castle for six years; he'd been away for just as long. But what exactly would he be coming back to?

He didn't know. But he knew one thing, at least—he wasn't coming back home a failure. Not quite a success, but at least not a failure.

* * *

"How long has it been?" asked Harry.

He was sitting behind Ron on his own Firebolt, clasping the taller boy's shoulders as he watched the spires of Hogwarts rise over his best friend's head.

"Six months," replied Ron. "That's six months too long."

"Yeah...it feels like forever." Harry noticed that Ron had gotten even taller, and his shoulders broader. Harry reckoned that Hermione must be very happy.

They were past the shining lake, skimming over the treetops of the Forbidden Forest. To his right he spied the houses of Hogsmeade, like many brightly colored toadstools lining the far shore. The rushing wind froze his cheeks. His breath fogged up his glasses and made his surroundings seem like a dream.

After a moment of silence, Ron said, "I don't know what to say to you. For weeks I was thinking about the things I was going to tell you when you came back, stuff that happened while you were away. But I now I can't think of a single damned thing."

"I can't think of anything either," said Harry, "although I should ask if you have a million different questions." He paused. In truth, he was afraid to ask. How had things changed while he was gone? If Ron had changed this much, how had Hermione changed? And Ginny?

"I'm sorry I was away so long," he finally said.

"Don't be," Ron said softly. "At least you were just away. You weren't gone."

Harry replied, squeezing his friend's shoulder. "I dreamed every day of coming back. Of seeing everyone again. Of actually eating a decent meal and sleeping in a real bed. I've got a lot of catching up to do and I can't wait to get started."

Ron grunted, "Good. Because I haven't forgotten that you owe me and Hermione those butterbeers."

They were laughing together as they descended towards the gardens near the south wall. Ron stuck out his long legs and caught the flagstones; Harry stretched his own to help but found he couldn't reach the ground. They swerved into a semi-circle before coming to a halt.

"I've forgotten how good it feels to fly," Harry said as he stared up at the descending riders.

"Well, you're going to get used to that feeling," said Ron as they got down from the broom. "And you'll be brushing up on your Quidditch skills as soon as possible, because I'm recruiting into the Broom Brigade. And this time, I'm not taking no for an answer."

Harry chortled. "What are you, a captain now or something?"

Ron cocked a brow at him. "You'd better believe it. So I don't care what hang-ups you got, you're going to be one of us, you hear me?"

Harry felt only the slightest twinge inside at the thought of Cho and Cedric. "I'd be glad to," he said. "Captain."

This time, Ron laughed. "I was the only bloke left after all the seniors fled from Hogwarts. You should be the one in my place, you know."

"Shut up, Ron. You're there because you deserve to be. And if I heard right from Moody, you've done a hell of a job."

The other broom riders and their passengers were alighting around them, and soon they were all striding towards the south side entrance of the school.

"Glad to have you back, Harry," said Ron.

"No one's more glad to be back than me," Harry replied. But his words were tested the very next moment as the door swung open for him, and a sobbing, bushy-haired girl threw her arms around both of them.

* * *

On her way to the south entrance, Ginny was stopped twice by friends who wanted to hear about the battle, and she had to weasel her way out by throwing off a few details and a promise to tell more when she had the time. She arrived at her destination several minutes later than necessary, and the first thing she noticed was the crowd blocking the doorway.

Ginny slowed down to get a better view of what was going on. It was not a large group of people, unlike the one that had greeted the Brigade earlier. It looked like it was mostly composed of members of the Order of the Phoenix, plus some bystanders who stopped to see what the fuss was about. Few spoke, mostly they seemed to be listening to a conversation happening just outside the door.

Then the crowd began to cheer.

Some men were coming in from outside—worn and haggard-looking travelers, it looked like. The guards of the Order greeted them like old friends, shaking hands and hugging, slapping their backs. None of the people looked familiar to Ginny.

Wait. There was Mad-Eye Moody, his magical eye watching everyone with perennial suspicion. Immediately after him followed another prominent member of the Order, her former professor Remus Lupin. Then came Hermione, head lowered in a familiar way that meant she'd been crying and was trying to hide it. Then her brother came in, with his chest puffed out like a rooster who'd just strode out of the henhouse. And then—

Ginny froze in mid-stride.

It was only a glance, a quick look before a tall blond man got in the way, but that was all it took. She recognized him because she had long memorized how he stood, how he walked, the exact shape of his face and shade of his hair, how he gazed about when he felt confused or upset. He was as familiar to her as her own name or the face she saw each day in the mirror.

_He's alive. He's here. He's home._

Ginny could not move, could not speak, could do nothing but stare and try to catch him again, as if he were a mirage that would fade if she came a step closer. The crowd parted a little more, just enough for her to see Sirius Black put a hand on the young man's shoulder—and then she was sure it was Harry Potter. Sirius had never seemed more protective of anyone else.

No one else from Hogwarts seemed surprised to see Harry—they probably assumed that he'd gone along with her brother to greet these newcomers, but how could they miss how Sirius and the rest seemed to form a defensive circle around the young man? They did their work well, too. Harry could not see her standing there. Neither could Ron or Hermione.

He was perhaps only twenty paces away. Ginny wanted to call out his name, wanted to reach out and grasp his sleeve. But she still stood there, gawking. None of her limbs worked, and her mouth seemed to have fused itself shut.

_Alive. Here. Home. _

"Excuse me, young miss," a voice said to her. "Have you by any chance seen the Grey Lady about?"

Ginny felt a cold presence at her side, but she didn't even spare a glance. "I'm sorry, Nick. I haven't."

Nearly-Headless Nick nodded, causing his head to topple off to his right. "Yes, well, I was afraid you'd say that. She hardly shows herself to anyone anymore these days. I can't help but worry. I say, what is that commotion about? Is that Harry Potter there with them?"

Ginny felt her mouth go dry. "It looks like it."

"I wonder what's going on. And who are these people with him? They look like they've just gone through a battle." He paused. "Pardon me for saying, this but you look quite pale yourself, young lady. Are you feeling well?"

"I am," Ginny replied in a flat voice.

"I see. Well, anyway…I should be going. And if you do see the Grey Lady, let me know." And he vanished through the wall. The crowd, meanwhile, had closed around Harry and was heading up a nearby flight of stairs, leaving Ginny alone.

Ginny wasn't aware when her feet started walking; certainly she didn't think of anywhere specific to go, but she soon found herself moving down the hallway.

Away from Harry.

* * *

Jamie ran until he was nearly out of breath, but to his dismay, only Cho was waiting for him at the Hospital Wing. She eyed him quizzically. "Are you alright?"

"Where's Ginny?" he gasped as he approached her.

"She already left. Hermione asked for her to go to southern entrance. Do you know what that's about?"

Jamie felt cold all over. He realized that was the one place he could find her, and while every cell of his body dreaded what he might see there, he couldn't help but go.

"Take this," he said as he handed Ginny's blanket to Cho before dashing off again.

He arrived at his destination with his lungs close to bursting. Passing some empty suits of armor, he found himself on an empty upper landing that led down to the south entrance…just in time to see Harry and his friends come in through the door.

Jamie gasped and stepped back into the shadows. Seeing Harry drove a cold spike into his stomach. His predecessor looked thin and haggard in those travel-worn clothes, but he looked every bit as strong and real as the moment they first laid eyes on each other in the carriage, seemingly a hundred years ago. And as before, Jamie felt afraid. He thought he might turn into mist if he so much as looked Harry in the eye.

His gaze turned to the left, and his breath left his lungs in a whoosh. Ginny stood not 20 feet away from Harry, watching him through the surrounding crowd. Her mouth was hanging open, her face drained of all color. Harry had not seen her. She looked too stunned to try to reach out to him.

Jamie wanted to call out to her, and he would have—consequences be damned—if he had any breath to do it. He stumbled towards the stairs, just as the crowd below was starting to climb. He could not imagine what she must be feeling at this moment. Surely he could comfort her. He was the one she would turn to during her hardest moments. She needed him, perhaps the only one who needed him. Surely, through her, he could find a reason to go on.

A cold, heavy hand grasped his shoulder and dragged him back down the hallway before he could utter a sound. Turning his head, he found himself between two suits of armor, who each grasped him by the arm. One of the portraits nearby shimmered and Phineas Nigellus slipped into view. He regarded Jamie without a trace of surprise on his face.

"As I once told Dumbledore," he said, "if you need to find a delinquent student, look first in the place he is likely to cause the most damage." He shrugged. "Well, enough time has been wasted on your account. Be sure to come quietly, lest these servants make you."

"No," said the homunculus. "No, please, I just need—"

But one of the suits clamped a mailed hand over his mouth, and he could say nothing more.

* * *

Ginny wandered aimlessly through hallways. The people around her were nothing but noise, babbling shadows that laughed and shifted and vanished into rooms. Some of them called her name, but she simply nodded to them and kept walking.

She had forgotten what she was supposed to be doing or where she was going. Her mind kept replaying the moment that Harry Potter walked through the back door of Hogwarts. A face that, she realized now, she never expected to see again in this life.

To her surprise she found herself at the Quidditch grounds, and realized she was supposed to make sure that their brooms were properly stored. But Ernie McMillan was already there, overseeing the reserve team on cleaning and stocking their equipment. She was not needed there.

Ginny racked her brain for something else to do, then realized that she was due to meet her choir. She sped off to the main hall, but after half an hour of waiting she was forced to give up. She and Hannah were the only ones who had shown up—the other members were busy partying with the rest of the school.

_Why did I even bother,_ she wondered as she sat down to have a meal. Of course no one wanted to work today. It seemed only she wanted to have something constructive to do. This, she realized, was a trait she'd picked up from her mother. During her hardest moments, when she felt sad or confused or frightened, her mother did chores. She claimed it was therapeutic. Ginny had scoffed then, but now here she was, looking for something—anything to keep her own hands busy. As if the simple act of tidying up could set her own head in order.

She ate what she could, but her appetite seemed to have given up and closed shop like the rest of the school. Sighing, she got up and started walking again.

As she passed through a hallway, she heard someone mention Harry's name. She turned her head and saw two men having an animated conversation as they strode in the opposite direction.

"...something straight out of the demon legends!" one said.

Intrigued, Ginny slowed down to listen. The storyteller, dressed in worn traveling clothes, seemed to be one of the newcomers that came in with Harry. "I'm telling you, the Cimmerian Sorceress returned!" he said.

"The Rathgrith?" his companion asked. "That's just fairy tale, tha' is! Me mum used to scare me to sleep with tales o' her!"

"It's true! From what I heard, Harry Potter made a bargain with her so she would fight the Dementors for us, then he tricked her into waiting till the sun came up and she burned like a torch!"

They turned the corner and Ginny heard nothing more. None of what they said made any sense to her. Perhaps she would find out about it later from Ron, or Hermione, or maybe even Harry himself. If Harry wanted to talk to her.

She found herself wondering what would have happened if she had arrived on time at the southern entrance, if she would be with the three of them at wherever they were now, involved in whatever they were discussing. She wondered about how Harry's face would look if he actually saw her. Then she began to wonder what he was doing now, if he was already back at Gryffindor Tower, asking for her.

The thought made her heart leap and she found herself running all the way up to the seventh floor. But when she arrived, panting and sweating, at the portrait, the Fat Lady told her that neither Harry, Hermione, or her brother had arrived.

Disappointment flooded into her. What was taking them so long? Why did it seem that the world was keen on keeping Harry away from her?

She decided she'd had enough of this; in all likelihood they were in Dumbledore's office. She would wait outside his door until they emerged. Then she'd have all the answers she wanted.

But when she turned away from the portrait hole, she spied a dark-haired girl trudging down the hall towards her.

"Cho?" Ginny said. "What are you doing here?"

The Ravenclaw girl walked with her head bowed, her bangs shielding her eyes. She had the enchanted blanket rolled up in her arms. When she looked up, Ginny saw that she was crying, and went cold all over.

"Cho?" Ginny whispered.

"Ginny," Cho said, "Anthony's dead. Madame Pomfrey came out and told me…it was hemorrhage…she could heal his outer wounds but not the internal ones…he…he bled to death, Ginny. I'm so sorry."

"No." Ginny felt her guts clamp together. "No, it can't be… He was still alive when I left. He was …"

Cho held out the blanket to her, and Ginny took it in her hands. That made the revelation all the more real. She kept saying, "no, no," but her mind was losing contact from everything else. Anthony. Dead. Just like that, the Brigade had lost one of their own.

Cho put her arms around her. "It's okay, Ginny. It's not your fault."

"Isn't it?" she said, and slowly disengaged from Cho's arms.

"Ginny?"

"I have to tell my brother," she whispered, and proceeded down the hallway.

But Ginny didn't go to find Ron. Instead, she made her way to the west wing, out the side door and into the garden of elder trees. As always, the enchanted fairy ring kept the snow from its borders, and the trees and grass remained in the full bloom of summer.

The sound of her footsteps on the grassy ground did not go unheard; a niffler tumbled out of its den among the roots of a nearby tree and waddled towards her.

"Hello Nap," whispered Ginny, picking up the creature and poking its belly with her finger. "I'm sorry I haven't visited in a while. But I just couldn't think of any place else to go today to be alone. I can't find the people I wanted to see, and now I don't feel like seeing anyone at all. Things keep happening and somehow I just can't seem to catch up."

She carried him to the nearest tree and sat down with him on her lap. He playfully nipped at her fingers.

"Harry's back," she said to him. "I don't know how he did it, don't know where he's been or why he didn't write or send a sign, anything to tell us he was okay. But he's back. I should be glad, like everyone else is. It's just that…I don't know what that means for me. For the longest time I thought he was gone, and I just carried on. And now my world's going to change again, and I don't know how to face that."

She paused. A leaf drifted onto her hair and she flicked it off. Her eyes wandered up to the sun shining through the canopy above her.

"There's something else, Nap," she said, "a friend of mine died today, while we were fighting the Dark Army. His name's Anthony and he's a Gryffindor just like me. He was only 14."

She realized she was trembling; she could see her hands shaking before her. But her voice somehow stayed calm, even when the first few tears fell onto Nap's fur. "Anthony was the most cautious one in the Brigade, you know, the one who had the hardest time aiming because his hands shook so much when he got nervous. During diving runs, he was usually the first to drop and come up, and he usually dropped them too high. I kept telling him, Anthony, you have to dive lower, dive lower, or you won't hit anything. And today…today he did just that…"

She touched her temple; it was as if someone had fastened an iron band around her head and was tightening it mercilessly. She almost welcomed the pain. "Just this one time," she said, "he fell behind me as we were fleeing the giants, and...and one of them threw a rock, and…"

She pulled Nap's rotund body closer, burying her face against his neck. "I was responsible for him!" she cried. "I was older than him. I trained with him. I led him and Fiona in every dive. Oh, why didn't I watch out for him? Why didn't I make sure we were all clear? I couldn't save him, Nap. I turned my head and he was already falling. Cho says it wasn't my fault, it wasn't anyone's fault. But that doesn't make it any better. He's still _gone_."

Nap made not a sound. When she raised her head, he reached up and licked at her tears.

"Thank you," she mumbled. "You're always happy to see me, aren't you? I'm so glad I came here. Do you mind if I stay awhile? Just to rest for a bit?"

Ginny unfurled her blanket and wrapped herself and Nap in it, then pillowed her head with her arms. She gazed up at the blue, cloudless sky through the leaves of the trees. "This is such a safe place," she sighed, "so warm and green. I can almost forget that there's a war, and that nothing stays the same."

Her words drifted off as she gave into her exhaustion, and her sleep was deep and dreamless.

When she opened her eyes again, the late afternoon light was filtering in through the leaves. Pins and needles erupted on her limbs, so she sat up and stretched them. Nap had rolled free of the blanket and was off to the side, snoozing on his belly. She decided against waking him. She rolled up her blanket and whispered her goodbye, promising to return soon with some poached eggs.

This time her appetite was open for business, gnawing at her insides for not having a proper lunch. Groaning, she let herself in through the side door and headed for the Great Hall. Perhaps now people would be more inclined to do sensible things, like get ready for dinner.

She sighed when she realized that there was still much to be done. She had to organize her choir, coordinate with the others regarding Quidditch practices, and go back to Gryffindor Tower to do whatever studying she still could. Life goes on.

And someone had to tell Anthony's mother out in London about what happened to her son.

The hallways were dark as twilight descended on the castle. Very few souls were wandering about—perhaps the rest took to their bed early after the celebrations. She passed a stairway just as someone descended from it, only the third living person she'd seen so far. Ginny wondered if anything else had happened while she was asleep. She decided it might be a good idea to find someone who might know, a professor or a member of the Order. It wouldn't do if—

Behind her, the footsteps on the stairwell stopped.

"Ginny?"

Ginny froze. The voice sounded terribly familiar to her ears. For a long moment she didn't move, feeling her pulse thudding in her throat. She turned to look.

Harry was standing at the foot of the stairs, his eyes all white in the gloom. They stayed that way for several moments, not speaking, gazes locked.

"I was…I was looking all over for you," Harry finally managed. "They said you were at the south entrance when I arrived, but I guessed we missed each other. They…they brought me to Dumbledore's office for debriefing, but somewhere in the middle I guess I fell asleep and they let me rest and when I woke up it was late and I…" He fell silent, staring at her.

He's changed so much, thought Ginny. He was taller, for one. She knew that if he came close she'd have to crane her neck to look into his eyes. His dark hair was wild and tousled and in terrible need of cutting. And he looked _thin_. The fingers peeking out of his sleeves were just little reeds, and his cheekbones seemed to have been chiseled out of his pale face.

But his eyes were just as green as she remembered them, like the sea beside white shores. She thought she could walk into that gaze of his and drown.

"Ginny," he whispered, and his voice was sweet and full of longing.

Without a word, Ginny turned and fled.

_To be continued_

_**Author's Notes:**_

_First of all, I want to give my most heartfelt apologies to those who waited and waited for a continuation of this story. Some of you have written me and asked/demanded/begged for some sort of update, and got only platitudes in return. For that, I'm terrible sorry. This little chapter, I'm sure, won't be enough of a compensation—but it's a start. And if anything, it's a sign that I haven't forgotten nor do I intend to abandon my fic. I will see it through to the end and I don't intend to make you (or me) wait another year for it either._

_Still, I've done well for myself this year, despite abandoning a regular 9 to 5 job. I write online to make ends meet, and I've managed to make two novellas on the way. Now that the money's coming in somewhat steadily and my family's alright, I believe I can find the time to write and finish TPATS to my heart's content._

_And so. This chapter begins the third and final arc of __**The Phoenix and the Serpent.**_

_Up next: Twilight time. True stories. Dumbledore's offer. Jamie decides. Us._

_**Chapter XXXVI: Warmer for the Spark.**_


	37. Warmer for the Spark

**The Phoenix and the Serpent**

"_There is no Dulcinea, she's made of flame and air,_

_But how lovely life would seem _

_if ev'ry man could weave a dream_

_to keep him from despair!_

_To each his Dulcinea, though she's naught but flame and air."_

_- Man of La Mancha_

**Chapter XXXVI: Warmer for the Spark**

Evening had fallen when Professor Dumbledore concluded the debriefings in his office. There had been many concerns to address among the war leaders, and many more stories to tell. Harry's friends, Ron and Hermione, elected to stay with him, so they all sat still and listened to Alastor Moody's duel with his old foe Gallowbraid, the Battle at the Door of Fire, the return of the Cimmerian Sorceress and the subsequent rescue of the Order.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Harry had fallen asleep on the sofa. Dumbledore decided to leave him be, quietly asking everyone to retire to a side room. He smiled as he noted that neither Ron nor Hermione left their seats, as if they were afraid Harry might vanish again if they let him out of their sight.

"So he's the one we've pinned our hopes on," said Melvincent Galino when they were out of earshot. "Such a frail-looking boy. I do not envy him his responsibility."

"Nor I," Marius Haggerty replied. "But if you'd only seen him at the Door of Fire, then you would not doubt that he can save this world."

The meeting quickly turned to what the next step in the war was going to be. Galino stated that it was best to press south to reclaim lost territory. But Mad-Eye Moody quickly disagreed. "We can ignore it for as long as we want," he growled, "yet we all know nothing can be done until Hogwarts has been rendered completely safe."

He gave Dumbledore a knowing look, and the headmaster understood. "Agreed," he said. "From now on, our first priority is to find and neutralize Voldemort's spy in Hogwarts. All this time, I have fed the spy false information to fool the Dark Lord into thinking that Harry was still in the school premises. Now, that usefulness is at an end." At this, Lyle Bishop ordered Moody to lead the effort in eliminating the spy.

When the meeting finally adjourned and the Order filed out of Dumbledore's quarters, Harry and his friends had already left for Gryffindor. It was just as well. Now that Dumbledore was alone in his office, it was time to settle one final matter.

He turned to the portrait of Phineas Nigellus on the east wall. "Where is he?" the headmaster asked.

"I had him brought in after Potter left," said Nigellus. "He would not come willingly, but I had prepared for that. You'll find him in there." He nodded towards a door far to their right, and Dumbledore felt a stab of guilt. It was a cupboard under the stairs.

There was no point in admonishing Nigellus; mercy was a foreign concept to the man. Dumbledore strode to the cupboard door and flung it open.

The homunculus was sitting on the wooden floor, gagged and bound by filthy rags. Seeing him, Dumbledore quelled a surge of anger. Even if it was true that the homunculus did not want to obey and this was the only possible way to keep him out of sight, it didn't mean Dumbledore approved of it.

The homunculus raised his wide green eyes, so indistinguishable from Harry Potter's. Ever since he was brought into this world, those eyes held nothing but deference and gratitude towards Dumbledore. Now they were filled with shame, and to the professor's regret, an immense fear.

Dumbledore dispelled the homunculus's bonds and extended his hand. "Come," he said. "You needn't be afraid."

* * *

_Why am I running away?_

Ginny pelted down the deserted stone corridor. It didn't occur to her that she only had the vaguest idea where to go, only that Harry Potter was behind her and she needed to put as much distance between the two of them as possible.

Outside the twilight fell, slow as a silk veil, throwing serrated shadows of distant trees against the tall glass windows. A suit of armor swung its head as she hurtled past it. "No running in the corridors!" it barked. Ginny clapped her hands around her ears. Despite that, she sensed Harry's footsteps not far behind her, and his voice leaked through her hands.

"Ginny!"

Part of her ached to hear the longing in his voice, but another part only pushed her to run faster.

"Ginny, wait!"

_I should stop_, Ginny thought to herself. _I should face him_. _I should talk to him. Why am I even doing this_? She argued the point with her legs. They elected to ignore her.

She ran through an open doorway that led her outdoors, down a flight of stone steps, and found herself in a deserted garden just outside the Great Hall. It was the same one she had walked through during in the Yule Ball, seemingly a lifetime ago. It looked threadbare now by comparison, just a few well-trimmed bushes and a single evergreen tree in the center. Across this little courtyard was another open doorway leading into darkness. She was about to sprint towards it when she heard Harry shout behind her.

"Ginny, you said you'd wait!"

She stopped, turned and looked up at the doorway as Harry came running through. She hadn't even broken a sweat, but he was panting and wheezing and his pale skin stood out in the gloom. He halted at the top of the stairs when he caught sight of her.

_I'm hurting him,_ Ginny realized, seeing the look on his face. She wanted at that moment to apologize, to give some sort of explanation for running away.

Instead, she screamed back: "I DID WAIT!"

* * *

"I've been waiting for you to come here on your own," said Dumbledore, "but it seems you would not."

The headmaster led them to a pair of chairs near the window and they sat across from each other. The homunculus could not look him in the eye.

"Would you like something to drink?" Dumbledore asked him. His guest shook his head. Dumbledore conjured a pot of tea and two cups for them anyway.

"I would have come, Professor," the homunculus said quietly. "I would have come eventually, but I needed some time first. There was something I had to do."

"Yet you realize the gravity of the situation, the danger involved if anyone outside of our circle knew that you…"

"That I'm an illegal magical construct impersonating a real person." The homunculus said this without a trace of mockery or reproach, but Dumbledore sensed his bitterness. "Yes, headmaster. I haven't forgotten what you said when you brought me out of my jar."

"Then…tell me. Have your feelings on the matter changed? Am I to understand that you do not wish to return?"

The homunculus stayed silent. Dumbledore sighed. In truth, he could already guess the reason for this, or at least a part of it. The homunculus had been out from his jar too long. Who wouldn't be enamored with this world? Who wouldn't grow attached to living here, surrounded by sunshine, friends, good food…

The homunculus met his eyes. "Before I tell you, there's something you should know about me first. I have a name now, sir. Jamie."

"Jamie," Dumbledore repeated. This was a surprise. "Did you come up with that name yourself, or…"

"It was given to me, sir, as a gift."

"Indeed? By whom?"

The homunculus hesitated, then said, "Ginny."

"Ms. Weasley? She gave you your name?"

"Yes sir. She said I should at least have something of my own, even for a short time."

He paused, and a long, uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Dumbledore finally understood what had happened.

_Good Merlin_, he thought. _This means trouble._

"Jamie," he said, "how long has this been going on?"

* * *

"Six whole months, Harry!" Ginny screamed. "I waited _six months_, without a _word_ or a _sign_ or ANYTHING to give me any idea on where you were and how you were doing, or even the flimsiest hope that I would ever see you again! NOTHING!"

Harry seemed at a loss for what to say. "Ginny," he began, "I can explain…you don't have to run…"

"I WANTED to run! I wanted to run because I'm so mad! It was bad enough that my Mum and Dad wanted me to stay here and keep my head down while the rest of my family fought out there. Bad enough that they wouldn't tell me anything about how they were and what they were doing, bad enough that I had to force my way into contributing something, anything, so that I wouldn't feel like a useless lump—I had to carry on without knowing if you were dead or alive!

"I'm so angry—and I don't even WANT to be angry, Harry! Because you're here now and we should be happy and everything should be alright and it should be a bloody perfect day, and instead we're still in the middle of this blasted war and I just…I just k-killed someone, for Merlin's sake—I killed someone for the first time in my life! And…and I lost a friend in the bargain. He was my responsibility and now he's gone, as easy as that. Gone… just like you were. I'm angry about losing him, angry at this school for celebrating, angry at Dumbledore for not keeping any of this from happening, angry at you for not being there when I needed you most. And most of all, I'm angry at _myself_!"

She paused, huffing, feeling as if all the blood had risen up to her head and bubbling at her temples. Harry still stood there, watching her and not saying a word. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to bring her trembling voice under control.

"I…I thought you were dead too, Harry. Can you believe that? When Dumbledore didn't even bloody know if you were alive, I thought you were gone and I was never going to see you again. It felt like…like the world had already ended, but I was the only one who knew it. The sun kept rising and people kept going…and there was still so much _to do_. So I had to let you go. I _needed_ to let you go. It was either that or go mad.

"And I was wrong, boy was I wrong. Because here you are! Alive!" She let out a harsh, self-mocking laugh she never knew she had in her. "Ironic, isn't it? I…I wanted you nearly all my life. All these years, I was in love with you, but I was the first to let you go, the first to _move on_. Shit, I hate that phrase. That thing they tell you to do when bad stuff happens. I've never been so mad at myself for doing that, for being so bloody stupid. And I've never been so ashamed. Ron and Hermione never gave up hope that you'd come back. But I did, Harry. _I did_."

She choked on the last word and looked down.

"And now, I don't even know where to begin with you," she said. "I don't know what to say to you. You've…we've been apart so long, we may not even be the same people we were before. I'm so scared to find that it's true."

She did not look up again until she heard Harry's soft footfalls. He approached her slowly, eyes locked with hers, as if she might flee at any sudden movement.

"You're not stupid," he said to her. "I understand how you feel. I've felt just as helpless, as responsible, as guilty as you. I still do."

* * *

"Have I…ever disappointed you in any way, Professor?" Jamie asked. "In my time here, have I otherwise performed up to your expectations?

"You did was I asked of you," Dumbledore replied as he smoothed his beard.

Hope flashed on Jamie's young face. "Then, sir, would you consider letting me stay in your service?"

Dumbledore's hand ceased to stroke his beard. He said nothing.

"I…I can help you," said Jamie. "I learn fast, so I can help you research spells and label all your ingredients. I can catalogue your scrolls for you—you said you've always been meaning to do that but could never get around to it. I could be your assistant."

This earned a derisive snort from the Nigellus portrait. Dumbledore himself did not reply.

Jamie said in a lower voice, "If…if not that, then just make me your servant. I can learn to cook and clean. I can sweep your floors and make your bed in the mornings, and you won't ever have to worry about bird droppings on your windowsill. You won't even have to pay me. If you'd only…"

Dumbledore stared at him through his half-moon glasses, and Jamie dropped his eyes.

"Jamie," said the headmaster. "Your wish is a selfish one, is it not? Ms. Weasley is the reason you want to stay. In essence, your offer of service is a bribe."

"Please sir," Jamie said. "I don't mean to insult you. I don't know what else to tell you. I did not plan to feel what I feel for her. I never knew what it was until I found a name for it. But now that it's here, I can't help it."

"And what exactly," said Dumbledore, "do you think you feel for her?"

Jamie sat still for a moment, then quietly said, "When I first met her, she was just a memory in my head, one of hundreds of thousands I inherited from Harry, and I felt nothing. When I first spoke to her, it felt awkward and uncomfortable. She didn't want to be around me, wouldn't even look at me. I didn't know what to say to make her feel at ease.

"But after she defended me from those bullies, we spoke openly for the first time. I realized that she saw me as a friend. And when she hugged me and held my hand, I understood, little by little, what it meant to be happy.

"And now I get up from bed looking forward to the day, knowing that I would have time to sit by her side and talk to her again. Yes, she is the reason I want to stay. I want to share my life with her for as long as I can. I did not mean for it to happen. All I know is that it's what I want."

Dumbledore's face remained impassive. Jamie dropped his eyes.

"I only want to make her happy, the way she made me happy," said Jamie. "I want to be worthy of her. I want her to love me. Professor, is it wrong to feel this way?"

* * *

"I can't tell you to stop feeling all those things," Harry said as he came down the steps. "You've got every right to be angry and disappointed. All I can do is say I'm sorry, Ginny, that I haven't been there for you during the worst times. I know I keep apologizing a lot, and it does no good at all when you look at what's happened. I've done nothing but hurt you, both unwittingly and on purpose."

He took a deep breath.

"But it's not going to be like that anymore. I don't want it to be. So I'll also promise you something, Ginny, if you'll forgive me."

He held his hands out to her. "No matter what happens, I won't leave you again."

Ginny's felt her breath, which had been racing just a while ago, suddenly catch in her throat.

"Why?" she asked. "Why would you promise me such a thing?"

He was standing at the foot of the stairs, level with her, his face tender and certain and happy.

"Because it's all I ever wanted," he answered, "all I ever thought about when I was away from you. I was a bloody fool not to tell you. I was afraid too, you see. Afraid of risking your safety. Afraid of losing you. And you know what? All my worrying, my trying to be…"

"Noble," Ginny said, glowering at him.

Harry smiled, that same boyish smile he wore back in the Burrow. "Yeah. And it amounted to nothing. I was being selfish and stupid and I only thought about what I wanted. Not about what would make you happy."

He paused, cocked his head to one side. "You cut your hair."

Blinking, Ginny's touched her red locks. "It was too risky to keep it long. It might catch on something during combat, or get in my eyes. I can let it grow back."

"No." Harry shook his head. "Don't change. I like you just the way you are."

He stepped closer now, coming to stand before her. Ginny felt no compunction to run. Far from it. She felt an absurd desire to fall forward, knowing she might hurt herself, and not caring.

"Maybe we're different people now, just like you said," Harry went on. "Maybe we don't know each other anymore. But I want to try anyway. I want to discover as much as I can about you. I may not know you anymore, Ginny Weasley, but I still love you."

"Wha…what?" Ginny's eyes had gone round owl-round. "What did you just say?"

Harry grinned and said something, but the blood was rushing too loudly in her ears for her to understand. But there was no need for words, it was plain for her to see—how his lips moved, the slightest lift of the corners of his mouth, the bright green of his eyes, like sunlight through leaves. And something was blazing inside of her, hot like the core of a star, its radiance erasing the shadows in her mind.

She realized her face was wet and she wiped at it with her sleeve. "Ginny?" she heard him say. "Ginny, I'm sorry...I'm so sorry..."

"Don't," Ginny managed. "Harry, just—don't." She reached for him.

Harry did not hesitate. He was in her arms in two strides, then they were two bodies merging into a single, new-born, awkward being.

"I'm the wuh-one who should be sorry, Harry," she burbled. "I'm the buh-bloody idiot…I said I'd whu-wait but... Can you forgive…?"

"Shhh," Harry murmured in her ear. "Nothing to be sorry for. Nothing to forgive. We're both alive and that's what matters. So shhh."

The scent of him surrounded her, and she clung to him as tightly as she could, as if he were the last warm thing in the world.

* * *

"The world is not always as bright as you see it," the headmaster said. "The feelings you have, by themselves, are not wrong. But you must understand that these very same feelings will later cause you grief."

Jamie frowned. "Ginny has never given me a reason to feel sad."

"No?" Dumbledore said. "Would you say the same, knowing that she cannot return your love?"

Jamie blanched, his eyes dropping to his hands. "I was hoping…perhaps…with time…"

Dumbledore arched his brow. "With time?"

The homunculus heaved a deep sigh. "It is because she has Harry, isn't it."

"She has Harry. Even when he was not here, he never left her mind and heart. You can lay claim to neither. You can never make yourself worthy of someone's love, no matter what you do or how you try. It is love that deems you worthy, for reasons you may not expect. You can but accept its judgment."

He put his hand on the homunculus's shoulder and looked him square in the eye.

"Jamie, I speak to you now not as your master, but as your friend. This path you choose will bring you nothing but sorrow, I guarantee it. Wouldn't you rather, for your own sake, return to your jar and save yourself the pain?"

The homunculus stayed silent, then shook his head.

"Professor," he said, "there is a grove of elders west of the castle keep, a grove that never withers through the seasons, always ready to warm and shelter those who walk into it. I want to be like that for Ginny. I want to be someone she can turn to even in the worst times of her life. I will remain her friend. If I cannot have her love then I will settle for just the dream of her love."

Dumbledore sighed. There was no avoiding it. He had to deliver the cruelest blow of all. "Jamie," he said gently, "Ginny is mortal and has a soul. You do not. You were never born and thus cannot age and die. Where she goes after her death, you cannot follow."

Jamie went rigid as if electrocuted. "She will die and…and I'll be alone?"

"Yes," Dumbledore said, "She will marry, grow old, and depart this life, while you shall stay as you are for all time. Such is the nature of love, this mortality." He turned to look out the window, where the moon was beginning to rise, and his voice grew soft and distant. "One thing is certain: no matter how good or powerful or wise we become, we are guaranteed to lose all that we love. And there is no greater grief in this life than surviving the ones you hold dear."

As he watched Jamie's face, a drop of blue liquid leaked from the homunculus's eye and crept down his pale skin. It fell on the back of Jamie's hand, who gasped at the sight of it.

"This is why you must not cry in public," said Dumbledore, wiping the tears away with his hand. "You cannot hide or deny what you are, Jamie. Reconsider. You have a chance to escape this grief precisely because you are not human. You can live for hundreds of years and see the world again through a hundred human lives. But for now, I implore you, go back to your jar. Go back to where you will be free from all mortal constraint, where you will neither want nor dream."

"And I'll neither laugh nor cry," said Jamie, staring down at the teardrop on his hand. "I will live for years, but in the end, I will just turn into nothing. Like the mermaid in the story." For a long moment, the homunculus sat still like an abandoned marionette, staring into space with his bottle-glass eyes.

Then he said, "Is it possible to obtain a soul?"

Dumbledore blinked at him.

"Professor," Jamie said, louder. "Can you tell me how to get my own soul?"

* * *

"Tell me," Ginny said, leaning her head on Harry's shoulder. "What happened to you?"

They sat together on the stone bench, beneath the evergreen, with Ginny's blanket around their shoulders. Harry's hand was warm in hers, and Ginny believed she would be blessed if it never moved from its place again.

Harry smiled, caressed a lock of her hair with his fingers. "You tell me your story first. Everything I know I heard second-hand from Ron and Hermione."

"Then you already know something about me. There's plenty of time to tell you the rest. But I have to know…where have you been? What kept you away so long?"

He leaned slightly away from her. "Before I say anything," he said, "I have to warn you that I won't keep anything from you. I won't try to hide any of the bad stuff."

"I don't want you to," Ginny said, squeezing his hand. "Tell me everything."

And Harry did, to the best of his ability. He told her of the Death Eater he had killed, of Flamel's end, of his time in the Crystal Cage. He told her about Dahlia. He related the awful things he saw and did in the hinterlands, how the mists had laid bare his desire for vengeance, his self-centeredness, his guilt from surviving where others had perished. He told her the story of Eirin and Arlen, and of the wonderful, terrible moment when he and Dahlia had discovered their bond. He told her, finally, of the battle at the Door of Fire, and the last thing Dahlia ever did.

An hour came and went, unnoticed. Through it all, Ginny's hand never left his, and when he would pause, voice on the verge of breaking, she would squeeze his hand to urge him on.

"It's almost funny," Harry said at the end. "Dahlia had lived for revenge once. She caused so much suffering and suffered just as terribly. And because she knew what it was like, she saved me from that path, and…"

His mouth twisted, as if the words turned bitter in his mouth. He lowered his head. "S-sorry."

"No," said Ginny, tilting his face up. "Don't hide them, please? I waited a long time to see them. They're my tears, too."

"I-I couldn't save her, Ginny!" Harry said. "I couldn't repay her kindness! I couldn't do anything for her! I wanted so much for her to live and be happy with me, but I couldn't give her even that. I let her go. She asked me to, and I did. Because I loved her. Isn't that stupid? I loved her, but I let her burn."

He was shaking, so Ginny slipped her arms around him and kissed his forehead. She waited for him to stop trembling before she spoke again.

"Harry," she said, "Harry, listen. My mum never asked anything of me. She waited a long time to have me, and when I was born she raised me and took care of me and taught me everything she knew. She never once asked me to repay her."

"I know," Harry said, choking, "but I wanted..."

"Shhh. You must understand how Dahlia felt. You didn't have to repay her and she didn't want you to. It's enough for her that you two met. She knows exactly how you feel, even if you never said. You can't imagine how happy you made her, and how grateful she felt that you loved her despite what she was and what she did. Don't say you never made her happy, Harry, because you did that just by being born."

Harry sank deeper into her embrace as Ginny leaned her head against his.

"I wish I could've met her," she added. "I would've liked to be her friend."

* * *

"She has taught me everything that is good in this world," Jamie said. "She taught me to hope and dream, even for things that are out of reach. If I have an immortal soul, if I can be as human as her, I will share something with her that's eternal. Even if I should die, I will see her again, and it won't be the end."

"Jamie," Dumbledore said, a bit of exasperation entering his voice, "what you're asking for is beyond reasonable."

"Forgive me sir," said Jamie, "but I want something of myself to survive this life. I want to be where my loved ones are after I'm gone. Isn't that what any human wants for themselves? Why can't I want it too?"

Dumbledore massaged his temples. "I'm sorry, Jamie. I personally know of no way for a non-human to gain a soul."

"But even if you do not know, there must be someone else who does, right?"

"I cannot say. It seems unlikely…but perhaps."

"Then…" Jamie sat up straight. "Then I want to try! Let me find the way! I want to see if I can have a soul. Please sir, don't send me back to my jar."

Dumbledore got up from his chair and paced around his office. Eventually, he stopped and turned to the homunculus.

"You are a foolish boy," he snapped. "I have met many, many fools in my life, but never one such as you, grasping at moonbeams, turning matters on their head, and demanding that things not be what they are!"

Jamie shrank back in his chair. Dumbledore sighed, then said, "And perhaps, precisely because of that, you seem most human to me.

"You know what joy is, you know what fear is. You have known what it is to regret. You have laughed. You have wept. You are now every bit a child of this world as I am, and I shall not send you away."

"I will say this, however," he went on when the homunculus's face lit up. "You may stay, but you shall sever your ties to Ginny Weasley. You are not to interfere with the life she wants to build for herself. For as long as you wear that face, even the sight of you may cause her and her loved ones difficulty."

At the stricken look on Jamie's face, Dumbledore added, not unkindly:

"You may speak to her once more, to say goodbye. And once I have done something about your appearance, she may visit you at her leisure, if that is what she wants. But not often, mind you. We will, after all, be busy with finding out how to instill a homunculus with a soul."

With a gasp, Jamie sprang from his chair and threw his arms around Dumbledore.

The headmaster hesitated, then smiled and returned the boy's hug. A part of him was glad to have found this compromise, yet there remained a lingering doubt that he had done the homunculus any good.

* * *

Ginny sighed in contentment. Nestling close to Harry, she could feel his every breath, the pulse on his neck so strong against the inside of her arm. She briefly wondered how everything can go so wrong and so right in just a single day.

"So where do we go from here?" Harry murmured.

"We start over, just like you said," Ginny whispered back. "We've got time to figure it all out, if we give it to ourselves." She raised his head to look at him. "If that's what you really want, Mr. Potter."

Harry smiled at her. "I've never been more sure of anything, Ms. Weasley."

She shifted closer to him, but he abruptly looked up at the lit windows of Gryffindor Tower. "Think Ron and Hermione are looking for us?"

"Maybe," Ginny said. "Sorry if I don't exactly care at the moment."

"We probably should head back," he said. "It's not safe out here." He got up and offered his hand to Ginny.

"Hmm," she said, grinning broadly as they walked arm in arm towards the entrance. "I'm wondering what people are going to say now when they see us like this."

"Um, Ginny?" said Harry, "I've been meaning to ask…"

"Yeah?"

"Are you currently…seeing anyone?"

She looked at him as if he'd asked her to jump off the top of Gryffindor Tower.

"Because," he added lamely, "that's the first thing I thought when you ran away from me—_she's got a boyfriend_."

"Gods, Harry," she said. "You think I wouldn't tell you that from the start? No, I most certainly do not have one!"

"Oh." Harry looked relieved. "Well, what a coincidence…" And they both laughed.

"I'm going to have to get used to living here again," Harry said, gazing up at the castle. "Being around people, sleeping in a bed, having cooked meals…I just realized, the last cooked meal I had was back in September."

"Mum will fatten you up," Ginny warned. "When she gets her hands on you, she won't let you catch a breath between spoonfuls."

"I can imagine." Harry laughed again. "And it's okay, you know, all of it. I'm looking forward to it as much as you are. Because…I think in the end, that's all Dahlia wanted me to do…to live my life as best I can and be happy. I'll do exactly that, Ginny—but this time, with you. I want to spend every day with you. I want to make up for all the time we lost. And I want to hold hands with you all the time, just like this." He linked his fingers with hers.

"Oh, Harry," Ginny giggled, in a way that meant "you silly boy."

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "What's so funny?"

"You've been away all this time, and all you want to do is hold hands?"

Ginny took a moment to savor the look of surprise on his face before pulling down on his arm so that his lips were within reach of hers, and for a long time thereafter neither thought or said anything, while above them the spring moon washed Hogwarts in the palest light.

_To be continued_

_Up next: Daniel. Ellie. Holding back the years. The same singular shade of grey. _


End file.
